


Write it to the End

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: And no one dies, Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Death Note AU, Drama, Gen, Happy Ending, Investigations, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Minor Character Death, Murder, So don't worry, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake is World's Greatest Detective, also Tim doesn't die, and everyone knows it, except different obviously because Jason's not a psychopath he's just misunderstood, except trust me it's good, in this au Jason is Light and Tim is L, it's been so long since I've done something that wasn't a one-shot, no important characters I mean, please don't ship Jason and Tim or I'll fight you, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: By the time Jason is finished, the world will be unrecognizable. Crime will be abolished altogether, and even Batman will be reduced to Kite-Man status. Jason is going to unleash a hurricane on Gotham like this world has neverseen.“All right, Death Note,” he says, words carrying on the wind. “Let’s see what kind of damage we can do.”
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 34
Kudos: 227
Collections: Red Hood vs Red Robin





	1. Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> Let's face it, everyone and their mother had a middle school emo phase where they watched Death Note because they wanted to be edgy. In my case, I never had any interest whatsoever in it until a few months ago when I discovered Jeremy Jordan was in the musical of Death Note and I listened to the entire soundtrack and fell in love with the story and here we are I guess. I have the remaining chapters all outlined and stuff, so rest assured this fic will be complete as fast as I can write it!
> 
> Enjoy my creation, pigeons. *throws breadcrumbs at you*

**Before** … **  
** **  
**“What the hell was that tonight?” Bruce demands, yanking off his cowl with one hand while the other stays clenched around the steering wheel. Jason can even see the telltale vein throbbing in his forehead; the _I’m Seething With Rage And It’s All Your Fault_ vein.   
  
(Jason calls it Nigel.)  
  
Jason’s arms are crossed, heels digging into the bottom of his seat as the Batmobile rumbles beneath them. “I know, I know, you can spare me the third degree. I was too rough.”  
  
“You think? Four broken ribs, a shattered kneecap, and a concussion. You’re lucky I thought ahead to call the paramedics, or Robin would be a _murderer.”_ _  
_  
Jason rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I got carried away. But come _on,_ Bruce, you know what that asshole did. Serial rapist and murderer, and all that shit he had in his basement…” He can still hear the women’s screams when they found them. “He deserved _way_ worse than he got.”  
  
Bruce’s mouth locks in a line. “Trust me, he’ll get it eventually. Once he goes on trial—”  
  
“Oh, who are you kidding?” Jason interjects, slumping further in his seat. “I worked the case too. I know how loaded the dirtbag is. Worse he’ll get is a slap on the wrist or a couple years’ jail time, and that’s if he gets sentenced at _all.”_  
  
This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, and they both know it won’t be the last. Jason has always been vocal about his rightful lack of trust in the same justice system which let his father escape prison _twice,_ yet convicted Catherine for harmless drug possession.   
  
Had the officer on duty not felt bad for the single mother who couldn’t afford bail, they would have been screwed out of meals for a _month,_ and Jason might not be alive to complain about it.   
  
“I know how you feel, Jason,” Bruce says now. “But in a city riddled with corruption, all we can do is play our part and hope the justice system does its part too.”  
  
Jason snorts. “Justice? There’s no _justice_ in Gotham. Best we get is someone getting too scared by the bat—” He forms bat ears with his fingers. “—to keep up their life of crime, which has worked a grand total of _zero_ times.”  
  
Bruce gives him the side-eye. “We don’t kill.”  
  
“I didn’t say we should.”  
  
“You implied it.”  
  
Jason props his chin up with one hand, picking at a thread in his cape. “It just pisses me off sometimes. We go out every night to put criminals away, but everyone knows we’re not _really_ accomplishing anything. I mean, where’s the justice in letting bad guys get off easy while we bust our asses trying to make the world a safer place?”   
  
Bruce nods. Stupid gentle bastard. “I understand. It’s frustrating to acknowledge the big picture.”  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
This time Bruce looks at him, head-on. Confused. “Stop what?”  
  
“The whole ‘I understand’ thing. You don’t understand this any more than you can understand living off of soup kitchens and diving through the garbage of rich people like you.”  
  
Bruce says nothing, because he knows Jason is right.   
  
“For Batman,” Jason says, “justice is beating the shit out of criminals and sending them off to jail for a few days before they break out, and you get to chase them down all over again. You _need_ the cycle to stay alive, because it’s the only thing keeping you from putting a bullet in your mouth. Is it so crazy to want a _real_ solution, for once? To get rid of the bad guys altogether?”   
  
Bruce is quiet, for a moment. His gaze is fixed on the black road ahead, but it’s clear his mind is somewhere else. Finally, he speaks—low and concedingly truthful. “No,” he says. “No, it’s not crazy.”   
  
After that the silence settles in, tense and ominous. Jason watches the buildings go by for a minute before sighing. “Is Alfred making pea soup again tonight?”  
  
“Most likely.” At Jason’s groan, Bruce’s mouth quirks a hair’s width. “I’ll sneak you a few cookies if you finish your homework before bedtime.”  
  
“I did it before patrol.”  
  
 _“All_ of it?”  
  
“...Most of it.”   
  
And, like a filing cabinet drawer sliding shut, the subject is left untouched for the remainder of the drive.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
**Now...**   
  
All in all, Jason doesn’t mind the League of Assassins. Sure they’re rigid, violent, and unfeeling, but that’s just another night in the Batcave as far as he’s concerned. He spends his days training, learning new techniques from every master Talia can find who is willing to tutor Jason in the art of killing.    
  
Sure he ends up executing the majority of them by the time he’s learned enough to do so after they turn out to be disgusting pieces of shit who deserve  _ far _ worse than what Jason gives them, but an education is an education.    
  
“I understand your rage,” Talia says one afternoon, “but you are decimating the League’s connections by slaughtering every teacher I bring you.”   
  
Jason downs a shot of whiskey. “You should be proud. It shows that I’m capable of more than even you expected.”    
  
So, no, Jason doesn’t hate it here. He just...wants to be somewhere else.    
  
He tracks the news. Scans every newspaper that breathes a word of Gotham, skimming for any information about Batman he can get ahold of. An icy hand squeezes his heart every time he sees a photo followed by a glowing article _ praising _ the new Robin.    
  
Jason’s replacement.    
  
He can’t decide which hurts worse: being replaced, or the fact that he’s alive to watch it happen. Jason has punched enough walls and broken enough furniture to know that blind rage won’t be enough. If he wants  _ true  _ satisfaction, he’s going to need to step it up a notch—starting with Gotham’s dynamic duo.   
  
He’ll stay with the League. He’ll train each day and bide his time until the day comes when he can finally return to Gotham and rain down on that city like both curse and savior. He’s going to become a better Batman than Bruce could ever hope to be, and then he’s coming for Batman and Robin themselves. He’s going to show them what a  _ real  _ hero looks like, and the pretender is going to suffer for thinking for a  _ second  _ that he could take Jason’s place.    
  
Soon.   
  
During Jason’s eleventh month at the compound, Talia takes him down to one of her father’s antique rooms with the intention of showing him some historical, almighty whatsahoosit that will teach him the importance of patience or choosing your battles wisely—some bullshit like that.    
  
The room is musty and smells like dead lizards. But Ra’s’ collection surpasses even  _ Bruce’s _ trophies enough to catch Jason’s attention as soon as he crosses the threshold.    
  
Rows of ornately sculpted swords line one wall, and some weird-looking vials line the adjacent one. Poisons, no doubt. The area of the room is filled with statues, glass cases, and platforms on which various relics sit.    
  
Jason runs one finger along a rusty blade with a green-jeweled helm. “Has anyone ever told your dad he’s a bit of a packrat?”   
  
Talia looks around as though she is taking note of the extravagance for the very first time. “Anyone who lives as many lives as Ra’s al Ghul is entitled to his fair share of trophies.”   
  
“Hope the Pit doesn’t turn me into a hoarder too,” Jason mutters. Then his eyes catch on one glass case in particular. “What’s that?”   
  
This case is locked with three sets of chains, which in and of itself suggests something  _ fun _ must lurk inside. Inside the glass prison sits a black notebook with jagged writing etched on the cover:  _ Death Note.  _   
  
Creepy, but what isn’t these days?    
  
Talia comes up from behind as Jason admires the notebook, fingers smudging the glass. “Enticing, isn’t it? My father encountered the Death Note during his travels in Asia several decades ago.”   
  
“What does it do?”   
  
“It gives its wielder the power to kill someone simply by writing their name.”   
  
Jason’s eyes remain locked on the notebook, fascinated. “You’re kidding.”    
  
Spoiler alert: she’s not kidding. “Its origins are unknown, but rest assured it’s very powerful. The last man to use it drove himself mad with power, and my father had to eliminate him. He kept the Death Note as a trophy, and it’s remained locked in here ever since.”   
  
Jason nods calmly, but inside he’s spinning. A book that can kill with just a  _ name?  _ Impossible. Dangerous.    
  
...Interesting. Now  _ this  _ is the kind of thing he can put to good use.    
  
“Stop it,” Talia snaps.    
  
“What?” Jason tears his gaze away from the Death Note for the first time and faces her. Talia’s green eyes are piercing, even in the dim light of the room. An accusation and warning wrapped in the same package.    
  
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “There is a reason the Death Note hasn’t been used since it first arrived here.”    
  
But already names surge through Jason’s mind, rolling one after the other. Edward Nigma. Oswald Cobblepot. Darkseid. Lex Luthor.  _ The Joker.  _ “After so long dormant, maybe the thing could use a little joyride.” He dares to let himself fantasize. Imagines the carnage. The power. The  _ justice. _   
  
Talia rolls her eyes. “Yes, because I’m going to entrust one of the most powerful objects in the world to a young man with a god complex. That cannot  _ possibly _ end in disaster.”   
  
“God complex? What about justice, huh? Imagine all the good I could do with this thing,” Jason urges. “With this hunk of paper, I can kill every known criminal on the  _ planet.  _ I can become a better hero than Batman  _ ever  _ was.”   
  
“That’s not the point, Jason. The Death Note is an object not even my  _ father  _ dares to use. No man should wield such deadly power, and it is for that reason we keep it here, where it cannot fall into the wrong hands.” She jabs a finger in his chest. “You won’t touch it, understood?”   
  
“Jeez, fine,” Jason says, half-grumble. “I won’t touch the notebook.”    
  
The  _ yet  _ goes unspoken. Because Jason never claimed to play fair, and he  _ definitely  _ never feigned talent at resisting temptation. The Death Note might as well be a steaming apple pie and Jason is Clark Kent strolling by, unable to turn down the freshly-baked goodness.    
  
Sleep is a lost cause that night, for every one of Jason’s thoughts takes him back to the Death Note. It consumes him, and he doesn’t even mind. He  _ wants  _ it to consume him.    
  
_ “It gives its wielder the power to kill someone simply by writing their name.” _   
  
Jason can think of a few people the world could do without. Joker, for one.    
  
With the power that notebook possesses, Jason can become  _ twice  _ the hero Bruce claims to be. He can pick off criminals one by one, and the world will be grateful to him for it. Jason Todd will give Gotham what she has always needed yet lacked due to Batman’s so-called “moral code”: true,  _ fair  _ justice.    
  
And isn’t that the point of all of this? Bruce picking him up off the streets and drafting him into his war on crime? Jason’s death at the hands of a madman who should have been the one rotting in the ground? Jason’s second chance at  _ life?  _   
  
Maybe this is it. Maybe  _ this  _ is what he’s supposed to do with his borrowed time. He can save Gotham—save the  _ world _ with but the stroke of a pen.    
  
Mind made up, Jason climbs out of bed and makes his way down to Ra’s’ Creepy Antique Room, encountering no guards on his way. Another stroke of luck. The universe wants him to do this.   
  
The heavy, wooden door creaks quietly when Jason pushes it open. The room is dark, but he doesn’t turn on the lights and instead trusts muscle memory to take the reins as he steps into the room. He goes quietly to the back where the Death Note resides, finally coming upon the case. He takes out the pick he slipped into his pocket and prepares to unlock the first chain, only to be stricken when he peers closer into the glass.    
  
The notebook is gone.    
  
“Do you really think me so gullible?” a voice says, making Jason jump. “I don’t know what is more insulting: your doubt in my intelligence, or the fact that you thought you could steal from my father without me knowing about it.”    
  
Jason sighs internally. “I’d apologize, but I think we both know that’d be a lie.” He faces her where she stands in a shadowed corner of the room, undetectable on his first venture. She’s holding the Death Note. “Give me the book, Talia.”   
  
“You’re going back to Gotham, I presume.” Like Jason is a ten-year-old threatening to run away from home with his Thomas the Train backpack.    
  
“Not until I get that notebook.”   
  
“Did your former mentor teach you nothing?”   
  
“He taught me  _ everything,”  _ Jason snaps. “He taught me that it’s the job of heroes to protect innocent people, and that is  _ exactly  _ what I plan on doing. I’ll be better than Batman, Superman, and all the rest of them by doing what those tight-ass supers won’t. I can cure humanity of evil altogether.”   
  
Talia presses her lips together, but already Jason can tell there’s a crack in her resolve. A sliver of hope for him. “This is foolishness.”   
  
_ “Please,  _ Talia. You know me. You know that the world will be better off with me using the Death Note. And if even the Lazarus Pit couldn’t turn me feral, doesn’t that tell you I’m strong enough to be the right candidate for this job?” He steps forward and clutches her arm. “Let me go back to Gotham, and let me be the hero it needs.”    
  
The crack expands. Jason knows he will be walking away with that notebook one way or another. Finally, after a moment of pondering, Talia holds up a finger. “On one condition.”   
  
“Name it.”   
  
“You won’t touch the League of Assassins. My father and my people will not get killed in the crossfire of your war.”   
  
“Fine.” He makes a grab for the book, but Talia holds tight so he can’t pry it loose.    
  
“And if you even  _ think  _ of using this on my beloved, rest assured no force on the  _ planet  _ will stop me from tracking you down and killing you myself,” she snarls.    
  
Jason grins, all teeth and venom. “You’ve got a deal.” And she lets the Death Note go.    
  
Her eyes are the sharpest blades in this room. “You have three and a half minutes before the guards realize you’re missing and come here. Don’t waste them,” she says.    
  
  


* * *

  
  
Jason stands on a cliff some miles outside the League compound—one of the places Talia took him to when he was brain dead. Ironic that only after death is Jason more alive than he’s ever been.    
  
He looks down at the Death Note in his hand. Traces one finger reverently over the cover. The material is worn and old, but Jason can feel the power emanating from it like pulsing embers. Or maybe the goosebumps rushing along his arms are simply from the wind chill.    
  
He opens the front cover and reads the inscription inside.    
  
_ Rules of the Death Note:  _   
  
_ 1) The human whose name is written in this note shall die. _ _   
_ _   
_ He’d be lying if he said his first instinct wasn’t to jot a quick, “Bruce Thomas Wayne,” but Jason made a promise. And besides, he has more important things to do now than waste energy on petty revenge. He’ll get that soon enough.    
  
_ 2) This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ 3) If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack. _   
  
Jason reads the rules again. And again, one more time. Can it really be that simple? Just a few little words, and suddenly the sky's the limit? Hands down, this is the craziest endeavor Jason will have ever attempted in his life. And that’s coming from a former dead man  _ and  _ a former Robin.    
  
But the image in his head is too enticing to pass up. By the time Jason is finished, the world will be unrecognizable. Crime will be abolished altogether, and even Batman will be reduced to Kite-Man status. Jason is going to unleash a hurricane on Gotham like this world has never  _ seen.  _   
  
“All right, Death Note,” he says, words carrying on the wind. “Let’s see what kind of damage we can do.” 


	2. The Game Begins

“You’ve been at that computer all day,” Bruce notes from across the cave. He’s been repairing a jammed taser for the past hour, while Tim has not left his post at the Batcomputer console since this morning. “Any longer and I’m going to need to start paying for prescription lenses in your  _ fake  _ glasses.”    
  
Tim shrugs, eyes not leaving the screen. “So? I look hot in specs.”    
  
“I can’t even _ explain _ to you all the ways that isn’t the point.” Rather than offering another retort, Tim merely hums. Bruce takes in the barely-there attention he’s been given; the eye bags, the perpetual frown of a puzzled brain, the stack of empty coffee cups. “What  _ are  _ you doing over there?”   
  
It takes a second before Tim speaks—like his thought process has sapped the pace from his speech through a curly straw. “Something’s off about this case, I just...I can’t figure out what it is.”   
  
“The heart attacks one?”   
  
“Tox screens just came back. None of the victims were slipped anything before their deaths that would induce a heart attack, or even raise their blood pressure. Whatever phenomenon caused this, it came from something else.”    
  
Bruce clicks his tongue, speculative. “And it’s too many cases at once for coincidence to be a factor. Any constants?”    
  
“The only link is that all of the victims were criminals, but there’s not a single known location they’ve all been to that would give the killer access. Twenty-seven have been in Belle Rev, fourteen Arkham, forty-one in miscellaneous prisons around the world, and eleven were never in custody at any point in their lives. One even died on a plane over Hong Kong  _ two minutes  _ before another did in Florida.”   
  
Bruce comes closer and leans over the back of Tim’s chair, gaze trailing over the evidence. “It could be an organization.”   
  
But Tim shakes his head. “It’s too...sporadic. If an organization were behind this, the time frames alone would require at least two dozen people in order to blanket the portions of the planet this is happening in. And with that many moving pieces—”   
  
“Someone would have slipped up by now. You’re right, it’s too clean,” Bruce agrees. “So we’ve got one mastermind who is somehow coordinating each death on his own.”   
  
“And he does it without having to be physically present.”   
  
Bruce arches an eyebrow. After being partners for so long, reading Tim’s mind has become second nature; just as vice versa. “You think it’s a meta.”   
  
“How else can one person kill so many people across vast distances in less than a day?”   
  
“Speedster?”    
  
“I had Dick time Wally. Even at his top speed he wouldn’t have been able to cover each individual death. And I’ve researched the limits of everyone we know of with teleporting abilities. None of them could be capable of this either with so little time to recharge between jumps.”   
  
Then it finally clicks what Tim is getting at. “You think the killing  _ is  _ the power?”   
  
Tim shrugs. “There’s no record of an ability  _ remotely  _ like this in any of the databases I’ve accessed, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense.”    
  
If Tim is right, then they have an entirely new kind of danger on their hands. He looks over the data some more before his eye catches on the bottom corner of the screen. “The Red Hood? I thought he was a second-rate killer.”    
  
“He is.”   
  
Bruce’s brows wrinkle. “What does he have to do with this case?” Off the top of his head, there’s not a sliver of suggestion that the Hood could be affiliated with the mystery killer in any way, but he also knows that Tim’s gut is like a bloodhound. Better not to doubt it and simply follow along.    
  
“Absolutely nothing.” Then again, not all bloodhounds can hunt. “I just have a  _ feeling,  _ you know? Like there’s some connection I’m missing here, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.”   
  
“Do you think he could be the next victim?”    
  
The Red Hood—named by Gotham’s most uncreative bloggers for his trademark red hoodie—is something of a phantom in Gotham’s seedy underworld. In the four months since he first surfaced, there have been only three documented sightings of him. Nowhere near enough to identify any details other than the hoodie which conceals his face from security cameras, regardless of angle. Almost as if he knows  _ exactly  _ how to evade Gotham’s surveillance, which takes skill no rookie can possibly possess.    
  
“He does fit the profile,” Tim agrees, chewing on his thumbnail.   
  
But they don’t call Batman the world’s greatest detective for nothing. “But there’s something else, I’m guessing.”    
  
“What gave me away?” Tim says with a smirk. A glance back at the monitor dims it. “I told you, it’s a feeling. I’m choosing to let it guide me and see what comes up.”    
  
“From what my few sources who’ve seen him say, Hood is a recluse even in the criminal underground. He restricts his kills to the eastern seaboard and surfaces only every few weeks for his next target. Tracking him won’t be easy, even for someone as adept as our mystery killer.”    
  
Tim hums and pulls up a new file. “His last kill was Bruno Dazen, the Southside Strangler.  _ We  _ didn’t even know his true identity until the body was found and Hood’s note outed him.”   
  
“And what does that tell us?” Always a teacher.    
  
Tim considers it for a moment. “That he thinks what he’s doing is justified. Or maybe he’s just stupid and cocky enough to want recognition, no matter how he goes about getting it.”    
  
“Makes sense why our killer would target him, then. He’s not exactly being subtle about his abilities. And someone with investigative skills like that would be a useful asset to someone who can kill with just a thought.”   
  
Tim steeples his fingers, making him look like a child imitating an adult. Not that Bruce would ever tell him that. “So does he want a partner, or does he want to kill another killer?”

“Either way, we’ll need to bring him down as soon as possible. I’ll have Gordon dig up what he can from the GCPD’s files on both of them, and then we can cook up a strategy for how we’re going to lure them out of hiding.”   
  
“Don’t,” Tim says quickly. “Every cop who’s tried tracking down the mystery killer ended up dead of a heart attack within a week of investigating. No one will even touch the case anymore.”    
  
“Can’t say that I blame them. This meta has single-handedly eradicated half the country’s Most Wanted list in less than six months.”    
  
“I’ll say.” With a grimace, Tim pulls up what articles he’s found on the killer. Blog entries and chat rooms, all conveying the same theme. “Everyone practically worships this guy,” he says. “With each new kill he only becomes more popular. They think he’s a  _ hero.”  _   
  
“Hero or not, Batman and Robin will find him, and the world will see him for the murderer he is.”    
  
“Hell yeah,” Tim says, and holds out his fist. Bruce blinks down at him. “It’s a fist bump, B. Come on, we’ve talked about this. Just make a fist, and—” He nudges Bruce’s knuckles with his own and makes explosion noises.    
  
With his other hand, Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “You make me regret having children.”    
  
“You’re welcome.”    
  
  


* * *

  
  
That night—four hours after bidding Alfred goodnight and ambling up to bed with his Superman pajama pants which make Bruce scowl every time he sees them—Tim lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling with no intention of falling asleep. Not with his mind as staticky as it is.    
  
The shadows above him dance in a shapeless jumble, reflecting the disarray in Tim’s mind with uncanny accuracy. Each synapse fires into another one, sending his thoughts bouncing around like Mexican jumping beans.    
  
He’s missing something about the mystery killer case. He  _ knows  _ he is. What is it?   
  
Known facts: The mystery killer murders criminals with sudden heart attacks. He’s a metahuman who can kill without having to be physically present, which means he could be anywhere in the world. He can kill long distance and without having to physically interact with the victim beforehand. Probably.    
  
Fact: The Red Hood is adept at tracking down those who work under a false identity, which means he could be a possible target. He also kills up close and personal. A potential yin to the mystery killer’s yang?    
  
The pieces of the jigsaw shift against each other, every detail drawn into the blob of facts like debris in a tornado. What is Tim not seeing? Where is the missing piece of the puzzle?    
  
_ Bruno Dazen, the Southside Strangler. Unidentified as such until the body was discovered.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Yin and yang: the mystery killer kills from afar while the Red Hood takes a hands-on approach.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The heart attack victims are killed at random times and in various locations, the only constant in the equation being their criminal records.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Motive.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “One mastermind.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Constants.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “We didn’t even know his true identity until the body was found.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Masks.  _   
  
_ “So does he want a partner, or does he want to kill another killer?”  _   
  
With a sharp gasp, Tim sits up in bed so fast his head spins. “They’re the same person!”    
  
By the time he bounds down the stairs to the cave, taking them three at a time, Tim’s mind is swirling so fast with the new revelation that he imagines this is how drug addicts feel on a trip. Like instead of blood cells he’s got pop rocks crackling under his skin.    
  
Tim’s sock-clad feet skid past Bruce. It figures that he’s still up. He is working at one of the lab tables, eyes trained on Tim as he pulls on his Robin gear in a rush. “Tim?” he says. “I sent you up to bed hours ago.”    
  
“I figured it out, Bruce.” His cape tangles around his neck in his hurry.    
  
“What—”   
  
“The Red Hood case. The link we were missing. I know  _ all  _ of it. The mystery killer, the heart attacks, the Red Hood’s sporadic appearances—I  _ cracked it.”  _ Pasting his domino in place, Tim grabs a duffle with his laptop among various other items and hops in the Redbird.    
  
“Where are you going?” Bruce calls after him.    
  
Tim starts the engine and pulls out. “To have a chat with the Red Hood.”    
  
  


* * *

  
  
This Red Hood gig is turning out even better than Jason thought it would. He hopes Talia is getting word of what he’s started in Gotham, because he can’t imagine things working out in his favor any more perfectly than they are right now. With some research and a few quick scribbles, Jason has  _ decimated  _ the criminal community at a level the police and vigilantes of the world can only  _ dream  _ of.    
  
Sure it stings that the Joker is untouchable (for now) due to his unknown origins, but Jason is patient. He can wait and get his full satisfaction later. He’s already surpassing his wildest aspirations thanks to the Death Note, and for now it’s enough to keep him content.    
  
The city has dubbed him the Red Hood after the handful of hits he’s had to carry out in person, since everyone in this godforsaken world has some kinky need to don a mask and gimmick every time they go out for groceries. (Seriously, what the fuck, people?)   
  
Tonight, however, Jason is taking some much-needed downtime. Five more criminals fell to “mysterious heart attacks” this afternoon, and the world has never been cleaner of scum. Aside from the hand cramps, writing out fate itself is more rewarding a job than running around in spandex  _ ever  _ was. For what feels like the first time, Jason Todd is making a real difference in the world.    
  
It’s when he’s lying on the couch channel-surfing that it happens. The TV screen goes fuzzy before blacking out completely, effectively cutting off Jason’s  _ Golden Girls  _ marathon. He’s about to throw his bowl of popcorn at the television in protest when the screen abruptly turns itself back on, this time on a new scene.    
  
The lighting is dim and the picture is grainy, but there is no denying Gotham’s very own Robin standing in focus before an anonymous blank wall. No telling where exactly he is, but the black hair and uniform is enough identification. At the corner of the screen it informs Jason that he is watching live, worldwide footage.    
  
Robin clears his throat. “Red Hood,” he says. Jason sits up. “Consider this our formal introduction. You’ve covered your tracks well, so I’ll give you that. But not good enough. I know you’re the reason behind these seemingly random heart attacks, and I won’t lie when I say that you’ve given Batman and me a lot of trouble.”    
  
Jason grits his teeth.    
  
“In the spirit of playing fair, I thought you might want to know what we’ve figured out about you so far. We know that you kill at long range, and that anyone who tries to catch you is dead. You resort to killing your victims in person when you can’t deduce their true identities, which means you’re a good detective, but you’re also impatient.”   
  
There’s something off. About Robin, that is. The suit and footage range proves this broadcast is legit, but he’s too stiff. His words too crisp, almost like he’s reading off a teleprompter.    
  
“I’m sure you’ve gathered the gist of this message by now, but I’ll give you the heads-up anyway: Batman and I are coming for you, Red Hood. We will catch you, your reign of terror over the world will end, and you can count on rotting in Belle Rev Penitentiary for the rest of your life.”    
  
Jason’s breath catches in his throat, thick with rage. Who is this—this  _ pretender,  _ calling Jason out personally like he thinks he’s so fucking special? Parading around in a  _ stolen  _ suit and mask, acting like replacing a dead man makes him a god among mortals.    
  
“Anyways,” Robin continues, “I figured that since I’m going to be tracking you down soon, it’s only fair that I level the playing field.”   
  
And he takes off his mask.    
  
Green eyes blink at the camera. “Hi, Mr. Hoodie. My name is Brayden Deluca, and you can rest assured knowing that we’ll be meeting face-to-face sooner than you might think.”    
  
Jason arches an eyebrow. “Well, damn. You sure picked an idiot for my replacement, huh, Bruce?” He picks up the Death Note from the coffee table, grabs a pen, and writes down the name with a flourish.    
  
His gaze returns to the television, mirthful once more. “It was fun playing with you, Robin, but it looks like I’ve won before the game has even started.”   
  
On the screen, Robin doesn’t miss a beat, unaware of his sealed fate. “And let this serve as a lesson to you and anyone else who thinks they can—”    
  
Jason’s mouth twists sadistically.    
  
Robin’s eyes bug as he chokes on his next breath. There’s no time to fight it—no time to cry, scream, or pray—as he grabs at his chest and collapses to the ground, dead. There’s no fuss or fanfare. Alive one instant, gone the next. Blunt.    
  
Jason doesn’t fight the laugh that bubbles out of his chest, two parts relief and one part surprise because  _ was it really that easy?  _ Sure he was planning on killing his replacement eventually, but to be able to rid himself of Robin  _ and  _ one of the only people capable of catching him in one fell swoop is—   
  
“Holy  _ shit,”  _ a voice says through the TV, and Jason freezes. Because the  _ real _ Robin comes into frame, staring down at the dead body in awe. “Oh my god,” he breathes, “that worked? I can’t believe it actually worked.”    
  
Jason surges to his feet, nostrils flared and face red. “What the  _ fuck?”  _   
  
“I mean I knew you  _ could,  _ but seeing it happen in person is just...” That’s when Robin seems to remember the camera, and his obscured eyes bore into Jason’s through the screen. “Red Hood, you really did it. You killed him without even touching him.”    
  
Then he flashes his teeth smugly, mesmerization passing. “I should probably explain the deal, huh. So, this dude here?” He points to the dead man at his feet. “Brayden Deluca was a bomb-crazy mass murderer whose execution was scheduled for about two hours ago. So really, we might have saved his life if you hadn’t done exactly what I expected you to. And by doing so, you just proved to me several facts, so thanks for that.”   
  
It’s like a kid who’s broken into his first cookie jar. “I know now that you don’t need any prior interaction to kill your victims, nor do you need time to plan in advance. I’ve never encountered someone with a power like yours before, but every new clue you hand out leads me closer to ending this sick game of yours.”    
  
He’s smiling, but his expression turns serious in an instant. It’s almost chilling.    
  
“Bet you’re pissed now, right? That I beat you? In that case, let me offer you some consolation.” He steps back a little, holding his arms out. “Here you go, Red hood. You wanna kill someone? Kill me.”    
  
Jason’s eyes widen. He watches Robin on the television, that know-it-all smirk making Jason grind his teeth so hard he’s sure to crack a crown.    
  
Robin’s eyes narrow when nothing happens. “Well? What are you waiting for? Do it, Hood. Now. Kill me.  _ Kill me.”  _   
  
“You little  _ shit.”  _ Because Jason can’t do a damn  _ thing  _ to this kid, no matter how badly he wants to. He doesn’t know Robin’s real name. He’s never seen his face behind the domino. He can’t do  _ anything  _ to him.    
  
After a minute passes and he still hasn’t collapsed, Robin drops his arms and smirks. “Well, Hood. Looks like you can’t. You don’t know my true identity, so I’m untouchable. Is it the name you need, or the face? Maybe it’s both.” He shrugs. “Guess I’ll find out when I have you in police custody. Want to know how I’m so sure about your capture?”    
  
“Choke on shit and  _ die.”  _   
  
Robin points to the lower part of the screen. “It should say in the corner of your TV right now that this footage is airing worldwide, but it’s actually only Gotham devices that are getting this transmission. I was originally going to just send it from city to city until I found you, but thanks to your cooperation, I know where you are.” He does finger guns. “Be seeing you soon, Red.”    
  
The feed goes black.    
  
With a wordless shout, Jason throws the Death Note at the television so hard it cracks the glass. Then he falls back on the couch, head in his hands. “Shit.  _ Shit.”  _   
  
He just got led into a trap by goddamn dollar store Robin—a  _ child _ —and Jason can’t even touch him because his true identity is the second best-kept secret in the world. If Jason is going to get back at him, make him suffer and watch him  _ die, _ he’ll need to step it up a notch.    
  
How do you get close to someone who refuses to show their face to anyone when in costume?   
  
  


* * *

  
  
“What the hell were you  _ thinking,  _ Tim?”    
  
“Calm down, it’s not that big a deal.”    
  
“Not that big a  _ deal?”  _ Bruce repeats. “You aided in a murder!”    
  
Tim tosses a tennis ball to Dick, who sits on the floor across from him. Bruce stands between the two, face a tasteful shade of pissed off. “He was going to die anyway, right?”    
  
“That’s not the point!”    
  
“Isn’t it, though?” Tim catches the ball again. “He was supposed to be executed two hours before the Red Hood killed him. Two extra hours of life that  _ I  _ gave him by having him participate in my experiment. So really it’s, like, negative murder.”    
  
Alfred could cook an egg on Bruce’s forehead. He looks like Conner did that time Bart replaced all of his socks with Hello Kitty mittens. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that you did all of this without telling me beforehand. For the love of god, Tim, he could have killed you!”    
  
“Well, yeah, that was kind of the point. Now we know that he can’t. We know his limitations,  _ and  _ he’s more likely to be drawn out now since he’s got to be offended that I outsmarted him. This is what we wanted, right? To turn the tides on the Hood.”    
  
“Not at the risk of your own life,” Bruce says.    
  
“But it’s not! He can’t find out my real identity even if he wanted to. After the witness protection thing,  _ no one  _ knows my real last name but us. I’m immune.”    
  
Dick tosses the tennis ball in the air a few times. “He’s actually got a point, you know.”   
  
Bruce turns and raises an accusatory finger at him. “You stay out of this.”    
  
“Okay, first of all,  _ rude.”  _ Dick shakes his head. “And we both know Tim doesn’t do things without considering all of the factors, so give him a little credit, all right?”   
  
_ “Thank  _ you,” Tim says.    
  
Dick winks at him before turning back to Bruce. “Think about it: you and I have public identities, but Tim might as well be a ghost. Sure he’s popular as Tim Wayne, but that means there’s no way the Red Hood can get him since Tim  _ Drake  _ has been erased. He might be the only one of us actually capable of going head-to-head with this guy unscathed.”    
  
Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “He can still kill up close.”   
  
Tim catches the ball again. “It won’t get that far. For now we’ll wait until the Red Hood’s next move to see where we go from here. We’ll continue the investigation with the new info I gathered from last night, and we’ll put this asshole behind bars for good. Okay?”    
  
He throws the ball to Bruce, who catches it in one hand. “Language,” he grumbles. But he still doesn’t look convinced.    
  
“I’ve  _ got this,  _ Bruce,” Tim says, standing up so he can better look Bruce in the eye. “Trust me. I’m not Jason, and I  _ won’t _ go into this thing lightly. The Red Hood’s not getting close to me anytime soon.”   
  
They stare each other down, Tim on his tiptoes and Bruce looking older than he ever has—the weight of Tim’s life and Jason’s death balanced on each shoulder. Finally he opens his mouth, only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing upstairs.    
  
Dick cocks his head. “You expecting anybody?” Because no one  _ ever  _ comes over at five in the morning unless it’s something big.    
  
The three of them go upstairs and arrive in the foyer just as Alfred is opening the door. “Can I help—” he starts, but chokes off mid-sentence. He drops his laundry basket. “Oh my  _ god.”  _   
  
Dick makes a noise that sounds like a muffled sob, while Bruce still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t so much as made a  _ sound _ as he stares at the figure in the doorway. Tim peers around Bruce’s bulk to see what’s going on, and his blood freezes in his veins.    
  
Jason Todd smiles at the old man in the doorway. “Hey, Alf.” 


	3. Stalemate

It’s strange, being back home. But Jason would be lying if he said the baritone of Bruce’s voice and the scent of Alfred’s fabric softener weren’t comfortingly familiar, like an old sweater. The weight creaking on his spine slips away, and he feels twelve again—like that dirty, homeless kid stepping into a whole new world for the very first time.    
  
The only difference now is that Jason is finally tall enough to reach the top shelf. And he has enough kills under his belt to make Lady Shiva beam with pride six times over. Anxiety and blanketing peace battle it out inside, like until this moment there had been a gaping hole in Jason’s middle and being back in the manor filled it. Made him whole again.    
  
But Jason is not here for a heartfelt reunion—a truth he reminds himself of every time he feels himself getting too comfortable. He is here for one thing and one thing only: to kill the new Robin.    
  
Call him dramatic, but Jason knows this is the only solution if he wants any chance at getting Robin off his back. He’s already made the mistake of underestimating the kid before. Their face-off proved that this Robin has no problem toeing lines Batman won’t dare cross, which in and of itself tells Jason that he can’t afford to dawdle with this one. Best to take the kid out now, before he reaches another one of those lines.    
  
The bats are swayed easily by Jason’s sob story. A simple enough venture when all he needs to do is tell the truth: that he woke up in a coffin, was a brain-dead zombie for a while, got “rescued” by the League of Assassins, and had been recuperating with them until he made the decision to run back home into the arms of his  _ beloved  _ family.    
  
(Okay, so maybe he fibs a bit with that last part.)   
  
As to be anticipated, Bruce doesn’t believe him. Duh. He’s  _ Batman,  _ of course he won’t take someone’s word without concrete evidence. For all he knows, this could be another Clayface switcheroo. A clone. A robot spy sent to dig up info on the batclan and blow up the mansion with his laser vision.    
  
“Prove it,” Bruce tells him, stoniness wavering in a way so unnatural that Jason wonders who is the one being interrogated here. “Prove to me you’re really who you say you are.”   
  
And thus begins the world’s longest Jason Todd trivia game. Questions are volleyed, everyone present save for that black-haired twerp who is  _ definitely  _ the shithead Jason is looking for, yet who vanished shortly after Jason’s arrival. He’ll get him later. For now, Jason settles in with a cup of Alfred’s tea and answers every inquiry Dick and Bruce pelt at him.    
  
Bruce: “What’s your favorite book?”   
  
Jason: “If someone from school asked I’d say some video game-inspired trilogy bullshit, but really I’m a slut for anything by Jane Austin.”   
  
Bruce: “Are you allergic to peanuts or macadamias?”    
  
Jason: “Neither, but banana yogurt makes me break out in hives.”   
  
Dick: “Who was your first girlfriend?”   
  
Jason: “Trick question. I never  _ had _ a girlfriend because I’m  _ asexual,  _ asshole.”    
  
Even with all the probing and DNA tests, with the scans and surveys, with the blood draws and Jason calling Dick a dickwad at  _ least  _ seven times when he won’t fucking stop calling Jason “little wing,” as if the stupid nickname will somehow cement the reality of this being the real Jason Todd. Jesus fucking Christ.    
  
Even with  _ all  _ of that, Jason still finds himself surprised at how quickly the family accepts his return. Maybe because they’re idiots. Maybe because Jason was missed more than he thought. (He chooses not to dwell on the latter.)   
  
He’s practically sweating by the time he finally gets what he came here for in the first place.    
  
“And this is Tim,” Bruce says, hand resting proudly on the shoulder of the boy from earlier, who looks like he wants nothing more than to bolt as far as his light-up Sketchers will take him. “I adopted him shortly after he became Robin. Tim, this is Jason.”    
  
Smothering his glee before it can erupt, Jason shakes Tim’s hand. Plays it casual. “Nice to meetcha, kid.”    
  
Tim ducks his head and mumbles a greeting before slipping out from under Bruce’s arm, tossing back an excuse about algebra homework.    
  
_ Tim Wayne.  _ At this rate, Jason might as well buy a lottery ticket with how well his luck is turning out. In less than a day, Jason has had Robin’s face  _ and  _ name handed to him on a silver platter. Now all he has to do is wait a few days to avoid suspicion before moving in for the kill. Literally.    
  
Jason moves back into his old bedroom. It’s exactly as he left it, neither a book out of place nor a chip in the furniture. Thanks to Alfred and his compulsions, it’s almost as if he never left for Ethiopia. Even the blankets smell as they did all those years ago.    
  
Every night Jason consults the latest news reports on pedophilic pieces of trash and soulless psychopaths, writing out justice with a sparkly gel pen. Biding his time until, four days later, he decides enough time has passed for an impatient killer to figure out the identity of Robin. After some extensive homework, of course.    
  
He waits until the rest of the household has gone to bed. Then he locks his bedroom door and digs the Death Note out from under his mattress.    
  
There is no ceremony about it.  _ Timothy Wayne,  _ Jason writes with a flourish, satisfaction surging through his fingertips when he dots the  _ I.  _ A weight the size of Texas lifts off his shoulders.    
  
Sure, Bruce is going to be upset when he finds his third son dead in the morning, but he’ll get over it. He got over Jason quickly enough, right? 

Morning arrives right on schedule, bringing with it the sunrise and the smell of Alfred’s cooking wafting upstairs. Jason wakes feeling more well-rested than he has in  _ ages,  _ and a spring carries in his step all the way to the kitchen.    
  
Until he discovers Tim himself sitting at the table, pouring an unholy amount of whipped cream onto his waffles. Tim, who should be  _ dead,  _ yet is largely unharmed in spite of the fact that Jason  _ knows  _ this should be impossible. He wrote his name. He pictured his stupid face. The Death Note has  _ never  _ refused a kill, so what the hell? Why didn’t it  _ work?  _   
  
“Master Timothy,” Alfred scolds from his station at the griddle. “While I stand by my reasoning that a young man should be well-fed, might I suggest leaving some room for  _ food  _ on your plate?”    
  
“I actually have a running theory that active brains burn up calories faster than normal ones.” Tim squirts a dollop of whipped cream on his tongue and says, mouth full, “So really, I should be  _ underweight  _ by now.”   
  
Alfred shakes his head and catches sight of Jason standing there in all his baffled glory, slack-jawed and messy-haired. “Good morning, Master Jason. Can I interest you in some breakfast? I’m afraid we are all out of whipped cream.”   
  
By some miraculous feat, Jason’s voice doesn’t shake when he says, “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” The words sound like they come from someone else’s mouth.    
  
Did he spell it wrong? He’s pretty sure there’s only one way to spell  _ Timothy,  _ and practically every building in this city has  _ Wayne  _ stamped on it in neon lettering. The Death Note has never steered Jason wrong before, so what did he do wrong this time?    
  
That’s when the mass of his mistake hits like an anvil, and he wants the ground to crack open and swallow him up all over again.    
  
Of  _ course.  _ Tim was  _ adopted  _ by Bruce, same as Dick and Jason. Wayne must not have been enough. In order for the kill to go through, the Death Note must need Tim’s birth name as well.   
  
Well, fuck. Might as well redact that lucky streak.    
  
Jason scours the internet, along with any Batcave files he can get his hands on for a clue about Tim’s true identity. The public was fed some story about Tim being Bruce’s long-lost nephew a thousand times removed, having come to live with him after his parents died in a car wreck. Not the most creative of backstories, but all right.    
  
He brings up the subject while at lunch with Dick one afternoon. Apparently Dick regrets not being brother of the year when Jason was around the first time, so he’s trying to make up for it by bonding with him now. Go figure.    
  
“So where did the kid come from?” Jason asks while they wait for the waiter to return with their burgers.    
  
Dick takes his man-whore eyes off the waiter’s retreating ass. “Who? Tim?”   
  
“I’m guessing there’s more to it than Bruce simply taking in an orphaned relative? Not that the man isn’t a habitual adopter, but I can’t really see him breaking his streak of circus kids and street rats.”    
  
Dick sips his cotton candy soda. “Timmy came around a little after you...y’know. Saw that Batman was too reckless without a Robin keeping him in line, so Tim wormed his way into the role and took on the burden himself.”   
  
“Wait, you mean he already knew the secret?”   
  
Dick waves a hand. “Oh yeah, he’d known for years. He recognized one of my somersaults from the circus and made the connection that if Dick Grayson was Robin, then Bruce Wayne had to be Batman.”   
  
Jason whistles. “Some detective.”  _ Shit.  _ No fucking  _ wonder  _ he was able to entrap Jason like that. The guy must be a walking brain.    
  
“You have no idea,” Dick agrees with a grin. “And I know Tim hasn’t been the most gracious host since you came back, but trust me, he’s a great kid.” Jason hates the way Dick’s eyes light up. Hates the way his entire _ face _ brightens, like he couldn’t be prouder of his amazing little brother. Jerk.    
  
“And the adoption?” Jason prods.    
  
Dick’s gaze flits to the side, checking for outside listeners. He drops his voice a decibel. “A little while after he became Robin, Tim’s dad was killed in the crossfire of a Justice League crisis. Tim’s identity was on the verge of being exposed in the fallout, so we erased it and gave him a new one. One with no connections to his former life or family.”    
  
Jason’s eyebrows creep to his hairline. “Talk about drastic.”    
  
“Believe me, it was all Tim’s idea. After so much tragedy, I think he needed a fresh start just to keep himself together, you know? And with the Red Hood situation that’s happening now, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for it.”   
  
_ Enjoy it while it lasts,  _ Jason doesn’t say. It won’t be easy figuring out Tim’s real name what with the Witness Protection arrangement, which throws a magnum-sized wrench in the plan.  _ Plus  _ with the Red Hood skulking around, no doubt the kid’s going to be keeping his identity under lock and key for the foreseeable future.    
  
Jason considers pushing his luck by asking more questions, but the waiter brings over their food before he gets the chance. They don’t talk about the Red Hood again for the rest of the meal.    
  
In the spirit of not pushing his luck, Jason doesn’t seek Tim out right away. He knows he’s going to have to connect with the kid eventually if he wants to get a surname out of him, but he  _ also  _ knows that nothing is more suspicious than your dead predecessor showing up the day after you challenge the Red Hood and asking things like, “So what’s on your birth certificate?” like a terf at a Trump convention.    
  
But it gets irritating when Tim keeps his distance too. Says hardly a word to Jason and keeps mostly to himself, locked away in his room. Fucking prick doesn’t even have the common decency to  _ talk  _ to him? Sure he has every intention of slaughtering the little ingrate, but is it too much to ask for the gazelle to wander into the lion’s mouth for once? Kids these days.   
  
It’s the two-week mark since Jason’s return, and he’s messing with a Rubik’s cube in his bedroom, courtesy of Bruce’s  _ other  _ new acquisition: a girl named Cassandra. She’s the new Batgirl of Blüdhaven, so Jason hears. Far as he can tell, she’s a phantom—here one second and gone the next.    
  
Jason has only seen her once or twice, and even then only brief glimpses before she disappears into the shadows again. She slipped the Rubik’s cube in his pocket yesterday after he left his jacket on a chair. Her way of saying hello, he gathered.    
  
All is quiet now, disturbed only when Tim comes in through the open doorway, unaware of Jason’s presence until he lifts his focus from his phone and freezes mid-step. “Oh, I...sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “I thought you were out patrolling with the others.”    
  
It’s hard to match this twitchy, nervous kid in front of Jason with the one who called him out in the Robin cape and boots two weeks ago. The mask itself must hold, like, ninety percent of Tim’s confidence at this point. Jason and Dick were never  _ this  _ uncertain of themselves, even in the early days.    
  
“I wasn’t going to snoop, I swear,” Tim says. “I just—I used to hang out in here sometimes, when you were gone. Not in a weird way, but it was the only place Bruce wouldn’t think to look for me when I wanted to be alone, and I think I left my physics textbook in here and…” He blinks a few times, like he’s just now realizing his own weirdness. “Sorry. Sorry, I’ll—” He turns to go.    
  
“Hang on,” Jason says. And Tim stops, shoulders stiff.    
  
He faces Jason. “Uh. Yeah?”   
  
“We haven’t gotten the chance to talk much yet. I want to get to know my replacement.”   
  
Tim blanches. “It wasn’t—I mean, no one can replace you. I was just a—a temporary requirement when Bruce needed someone to fill in the space you left. I  _ never  _ meant to take your place. Trust me, Bruce tolerates me but he  _ loves  _ you, and when you died, it—”   
  
“Relax, kid,” Jason tells him, forcing a smirk. “I’m not here to take the Robin suit from you.”   
  
“You’re...not?”   
  
Jason motions for Tim to sit beside him on the bed, and after a moment of consideration, he does. Tim leaves as much space between himself and Jason as possible, and part of Jason wonders if it’s one of those natural responses to danger, like a dog sensing a thunderstorm.    
  
Because Jason could kill him right here, right now. Catch him completely off guard and snap his neck. Smother him with a pillow. Crack this plastic cube against his skull. But as enticing as the possibilities are, Jason holds himself back.    
  
Murdering Tim in a household of detectives would be just  _ asking  _ to get found out. Bruce wouldn’t stop until he inevitably discovered Jason was the killer, and that would be it. No more Red Hood. No more life outside of four iron walls. And, possibly worst of all, Jason will have officially severed every bond he has with his family.    
  
Which is...an unexpected factor in his plan. Until he stepped foot in the manor, Jason hadn’t realized how deeply being back home would affect him. He still wants revenge on Bruce for not avenging his death—that part hasn’t changed. But now, with all Jason is doing as the Red Hood, he is already fulfilling that objective by acting as Gotham’s new hero. Mission accomplished.    
  
Besides, why waste energy being mad at your dad for not killing  _ one guy _ when you can rid the world of fifty villains before breakfast? This Death Note gig has put things into perspective regarding his grudge against Bruce, which is an outcome Jason never saw coming. By keeping up the Red Hood thing in secret, he can maintain a relationship with Bruce while at the same time rendering him obsolete as a protector.    
  
Jason can have the best of both worlds, and the only person who can stop him is next up on the to-do list.    
  
So, instead of reddening his blood-soaked hands further, Jason sets aside the Rubik’s cube along with his bubbling rage. “I appreciate all you’ve done around here, Tim.”    
  
“You do?”   
  
Jason shrugs. “Well, duh. You were there for these guys when I couldn’t be. Plus, from what I’ve been hearing, you became a better Robin than I  _ ever  _ was.” He claps Tim on the shoulder and resists the urge to bruise it. “I couldn’t have asked for a better successor.”    
  
Tim must have picked up the Rubik’s cube at some point and fiddles with it now, not looking at Jason. “Wow. To be honest, I kind of thought you’d hate me for taking Robin.”   
  
Jason wants to push him out a window. “Hate you? Of course not. You were just trying to do the right thing. I could never blame you for that.”    
  
The cocky bastard’s cheeks flush. “Oh. Thanks, Jason.” And the world’s tiniest smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.    
  
Hammers. Lighters. The French guillotine. “Now what’s this I hear about you going toe-to-toe with that Red Hood?” Jason says, subtle as ever. “I saw it all on my laptop when you challenged him like that?  _ Way  _ badass.”    
  
_ There  _ it is. A flicker in Tim’s eyes. A small spark from the flame within. So the kid’s not a  _ complete  _ pansy without the mask. “Trust me, it wasn’t easy. Bruce and I were investigating the Hood for months, but our first break in the case was that night with the video trick.”    
  
“Pretty clever,” Jason says. “You think he’s going to make a move now that you drove him away with his tail between his legs?”    
  
Tim’s not looking at the cube anymore; pupils fixed on the wall across from them as his fingers twist squares in random directions. “He hasn’t broken his pattern of five kills a day from what I can tell, but the fact that he hasn’t upped the stakes yet since that night suggests he’s waiting for something. I’m not sure what it is, but my hope is that whatever it is will draw him out soon enough for us to gather more info.”   
  
Damn, the twerp is sharper than Jason thought. He’ll have to stick with the steady schedule while he plays nice with the bats to ensure there’s no lapse that can be connected to his homecoming. “You know,” he says, “I’d be happy to help out with the investigation.”   
  
Tim lights up. “Really?” What an idiot.   
  
“Sure. It would be a good way for me to ease back into hero work. And I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but…” Jason leans in conspiratorially and stage-whispers, “I was trained by a pretty good detective myself.”    
  
Tim grins, and it’s a full one this time. “That would be awesome, Jason, thanks. I have all the files down in the cave, so once you catch up on the details we can start working on it tonight.” He stands up and drops the cube in Jason’s lap. “I’ve got homework, but I’ll catch you at dinner.” He leaves, narrowly avoiding bumping into the door jamb on his way out. Fucking dork.    
  
As soon as he disappears into the hallway, Jason allows himself his own private, sinister grin.  _ Jackpot.  _ Looks like he and Tim are going to be besties for the remainder of Tim’s short life.    
  
Jason looks down at the Rubik’s cube in his lap, every side of which has been solved.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tim isn’t an idiot. Obviously.    
  
But as far as Jason knows, Tim is some dorky, awkward kid in way over his head, and he won’t stand a chance against the Red Hood when their game turns into a bloodbath. Good.    
  
In all fairness, Tim is a detective. It’s his job to be paranoid.    
  
Not to say that Tim doesn’t trust Jason any more than he wouldn’t trust a stranger at the grocery store or a miscellaneous classmate. Tim doesn’t trust _ anyone _ outside of his close circle of friends and family, so there’s nothing personal when it comes to his harbored suspicion of Jason’s true intentions.    
  
As of right now, Tim would say there’s a 36% chance that his gut is right and Jason isn’t to be trusted, a 59% chance that Tim’s paranoia is simply getting the better of him, and a 5% chance that a scenario he doesn’t even want to  _ think  _ about might actually be true. But he’s choosing not to delve into that rabbit hole for now.    
  
They all gather in the Batcave—Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Tim—to give Jason the rundown on the Red Hood case. Per Tim’s request, Alfred’s provided a bowl of wild berry Skittles which rests on the console. Dick takes a handful.    
  
“First things first, do we have any updates on the case?” Bruce asks, not even bothering to chide Tim on how he’s sitting in the batchair upside-down. After raising an eight-year-old acrobat, the man is picking his battles.    
  
“The Red Hood hasn’t broken pattern, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tim says. “It’s still between three and six kills a day on average with no clear standouts.”    
  
Dick tosses a Skittle in the air and catches it in his mouth. “Why don’t we just have the Justice League get ahold of the media and make it so that any new arrests aren’t publicized? With the influx of victims coming in slower, it’ll buy us more time to deal with this.”    
  
“Well, sure,” Tim says, sifting through the bowl for a blue raspberry, “but then we’ll have an even bigger massacre on our hands.”    
  
“What makes you say that?”    
  
“If you were the Red Hood and someone took away your pool of victims, wouldn’t you be mad about it? Odds are he’d lash out and start killing innocents as a middle finger to  _ us  _ for making things difficult for him.”    
  
Bruce nods. “He’s right. The Hood has the power to hold the world hostage, so we have to be mindful of his profile if we’re going to be juggling offense and defense at the same time.”   
  
“Well,” Tim says through a mouthful of Skittles, “whoever the Red Hood is, we know that he’s childish and hates to lose.”   
  
“How d’ya figure?” Jason asks.    
  
Tim shrugs. “Because I’m also childish and hate to lose. Plus, check this out.” Still upside-down, Tim pulls up the latest reports. “Notice anything interesting?”   
  
Dick chews his cheek in the way he always does when he’s thinking. Tim’s pretty sure he has no idea he does it. “All of the victims are caucasion males under the age of twenty-five.”    
  
“And with black hair,” Jason notes. “So is he just guessing at this point and hoping one of them is you?”   
  
“Three of them don’t live in the States,” Tim specifies. “And every one of them has been convicted of fraud in the past five years.”    
  
“So he’s calling you out,” Bruce finishes. “Trying to make you antsy.”   
  
“Yep.” Tim crosses his legs over the back of the chair. “Is it bad that I feel kind of flattered at the attention?”   
  
“Yes,” they all respond.    
  
“It might be a message,” Bruce says, rubbing his chin. Back before Jason died, Bruce was clean-shaven in every photo Tim saw of him. Now he’s got stubble. “Normally he only targets criminals until the authorities get involved, in which case he starts picking off the officers. Once they back off, so does he. Now he knows  _ you’re  _ trying to catch him, so he’s going to kill innocents in your place until you stop investigating as well.”   
  
“I don’t plan on stopping,” Tim tells him, and it comes out sharper than he intends it to.    
  
“I know. And it’s for that reason I’m benching you from patrol until he’s caught.”   
  
“What?  _ Bruce—” _ _   
_   
“I’m not letting you out when there’s a target on your back. Even if he can’t figure out your identity, he could always go out and kill you in costume. I’m not taking that risk.”    
  
“He’s right,” Jason says. All eyes turn to him. “Whoever this meta is, it’s clear that you’re his only major obstacle aside from the old man here. It’s best you lie low for now.”    
  
(Tim adds this to his mental cache of notes on Jason. Does he genuinely agree and is looking out for Tim’s safety, or does he want him contained where he can keep an eye on him?)   
  
“Which begs the question,” Dick adds, “why is it he’s got beef with you in the first place? Why not Batman too?”   
  
Tim’s eyeline switches to Jason. “Think of it this way,” he says. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that Jason was the Red Hood. If Bruce stole his bagel, I’m sure he’d be irritated. But if I stole his bagel  _ and  _ punched him in the face, he’d probably want revenge, right?”    
  
Jason just laughs. “Not sure if I should be insulted about being compared to a crazy metahuman, but the kid’s right.” He bumps his arm into Tim’s foot. “You called him out personally, so he’s not going to stop until he puts you down for good.”    
  
Bruce grimaces, and Tim knows he’s picturing a smoldering warehouse. “In that case, I think we can all agree it’s best that it doesn’t get that far. What else do we have on a profile?”   
  
Tim squeezes a Skittle between his fingers until the candy shell cracks. “I’d place him anywhere between fifteen and thirty-five years old. We know he lives in Gotham, but  _ where  _ in Gotham is still unknown.”   
  
“Not necessarily,” Dick says. “All of the hits he’s carried out in person have taken place on the south side of town. Odds are that’s where we’ll find him.”   
  
Time for another test. “Jason,” Tim says, motive veiled with interest. “What do you think?”    
  
The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches downward for half a second, and Tim knows he’s got him. He doesn’t entirely know what he’s looking for with this experiment, but there’s no harm in letting his curiosity have its fun. All data is useful data.    
  
Either Jason will agree with Dick that the Hood lives on the south side of Gotham—far away from the manor—or he’ll say what Tim’s own first thought would be: that the convenient placing of the kills is a decoy move to throw them off his scent.    
  
If Jason sees Tim’s true intention, he doesn’t show it. He pulls himself up to sit on the desk and reclines back, hands linked behind his head. “I don’t know, I’ve got a feeling he’s limiting the range of his kills on purpose. Best to assume it’s an act to throw us off the real trail.”    
  
Interesting. Tim doesn’t react one way or the other and returns his attention to Bruce. “What about manipulating other villains?” he asks.    
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“Well, we know he’s targeting criminals. I can imagine he’s ruffling feathers by doing so. If we can get one of them to work against the Hood, we can use that to draw him out of hiding. We might even get lucky and the criminal we use can apprehend him  _ for  _ us.”    
  
Bruce’s eyes narrow. “We’re not using people as bait, Tim. Not against someone so dangerous.”    
  
“Why not? It’s clear now that Red Hood works in the gray zone. If we’re going to catch him, we need to start doing the same. I’ve got this guy, Ronald Sekowski. He’s a petty criminal now, but if we make him step it up to larger-scale crimes he’ll get Hood’s attention, and then we can—”    
  
“No,” Bruce snaps. “Absolutely not.”    
  
“He’s not just going to stop on his own.” This time Tim turns himself right-side up so he can stare Bruce down properly. “You know that, right? It’s my move, and I’m mature enough to accept that we might need to up the stakes if we’re going to get anywhere.”    
  
“Batman doesn’t stoop to his enemy’s level.”   
  
“But Robin could.”    
  
Bruce glowers at Tim, pinning him with the full force of his bat-glare. Tim matches it without flinching until, after a moment, Bruce lets out a terse breath and addresses the others. “Regardless of whether Hood lives on the south side or not, I say we focus our patrols in and around that area. We might get lucky and run into him before a kill. Meanwhile, Tim and Jason will investigate Hood’s patterns and get closer to identifying him from behind the scenes.”    
  
Nobody dares argue.    
  
As they adjourn, Tim watches Jason as he jumps down from the desk and follows Dick toward the stairs. 

From the stories Bruce tells and the news reports Tim used to watch every night back when Robin was a young boy in green shorts, Jason Todd is—first and foremost—a hero. So Tim knows he must be ludicrous for even  _ considering  _ that Jason’s intentions are anything but noble.   
  
He just has this  _ feeling _ about him, like his gut knows something his mind doesn’t. And Tim’s gut has never steered him wrong before. It was right when he knew Batman needed a Robin. It was right when he thought he was missing a connection between the mystery killer and the Red Hood. And now, Tim is playing too dangerous a game to risk not examining every possible twist. 

Tim sneaks another peek at Jason, who seems to feel the eyes prickling the back of his neck. He turns and meets Tim’s stare. He says nothing, but for a second—a  _ split  _ second, so quick Tim nearly misses it—his mouth twitches downward, and a strange, sharp  _ something  _ glimmers in his eye.    
  
Then it’s as if it never happened, and Jason turns back around. Tim takes another handful of Skittles and pours them into his mouth, watching Jason leave.    
  
Interesting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No, trans people don't need their deadnames for the Death Note to work. I decided that it needs whatever full name the person identifies as, and Tim will always see himself as Tim Drake-Wayne which is why Jason needs the Drake part so yeah.)


	4. Playing His Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wanted to know how my life's going right now, Google Drive recently deleted my 30-page grammar packet which I spent weeks of my life working on, so clearly I'm doing great, fellas. 👌

“Hey, Tim, you grew up rich,” Dick says as he waltzes into Tim’s room. “Have you ever had a quiche before? Jason is making a bunch of them with Alfred, but they look sorta like vomit pie and I need to know if that’s normal or not.”  
  
Tim’s eyes don’t leave the computer screen. “Mm-hm.”  
  
“Ouch. Never thought I’d be bumped to ‘mm-hm’ status by my own flesh and blood.” Dick comes over to the desk and peeks over Tim’s shoulder. “Good case?”  
  
“We’re not technically flesh and blood,” Tim reminds him.  
  
“Says the government.”  
  
“And I’m still reviewing the Red Hood investigation for any details we missed.”  
  
“Ah. Because god forbid you do anything else with your time.” Dick ruffles Tim’s hair, and suddenly he’s thirteen again. “Every day it feels more and more like you found your own personal Lex Luthor.”  
  
This time Tim does turn around to frown at him. “Did you know Clark and Lex were best friends when they were younger?”  
  
“Yeah, I hear about it at every Christmas party,” Dick says with a chuckle, but he sobers when Tim’s speculative frown sticks in place. “What? What are you thinking?”  
  
Tim can’t do this to him. He can’t tell Dick what he’s been dreading since the day Jason arrived on their doorstep. It’ll kill him. “Nothing.” He shakes his head and starts to turn his chair back around. “Forget it.”  
  
Dick grabs the back of the chair and stops him, mid-spin. “Tim.”  
  
“Just...did you ever notice that every one of the major villains Hood’s killed has files in our database?”  
  
“Yeah? So?”  
  
“The Batcave’s tech is part of a secure system with limited channels of access. The only way for someone to get in is for them to either already _have_ our codes or be skilled enough to hack in manually, which requires techniques only one of us would know.”  
  
“Anyone could have done that. Hell, maybe Hood just has access to FBI codes and there happens to be a huge overlap. It wouldn’t be the first time.”  
  
“Maybe,” Tim allows. “Or maybe we should be thinking more logically about this.” He can see it now. The uncertainty coursing through Dick’s mind at the implications Tim doesn’t want to say out loud.  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Dick says.  
  
“He _did_ show up only a little while after the murders started.”  
  
“Jason could have been in Gotham for _any_ amount of time before that. For all we know, he was still with the League when Hood got going.”  
  
Tim picks up a folder from his desk and hands it to Dick. Dick takes it hesitantly. He sits down amid the clutter on Tim’s bed and opens the folder, skimming the first printout.  
  
“I hacked into Jason’s credit history by searching through the League of Assassins’ records for their most recent purchases in America. Jason used one of their credit cards to rent an apartment just outside of Blüdhaven five weeks after the Red Hood’s first known kill.”  
  
Dick looks over the records, pinkie absently curling the corner of the top page. “This proves nothing. If anything, it just shows that Hood was here first, so it can’t be Jason.”  
  
“Not necessarily,” Tim says. “And don’t you find it weird that the only other knowledge we have about Jason’s whereabouts before he came home is from what _he_ told us?”  
  
“Jason is a hero, Tim. He _died_ a hero.” Dick closes the folder and drops it in Tim’s lap. “Do you really think he would come back to life and go on a killing spree?”  
  
“The Lazarus Pit does crazy things to people.”  
  
Dick’s eyes narrow. His temper simmers. “And the last few weeks have proved that Jason is perfectly sane. If he were some rabid psychopath, we would have found out by now. Besides, our guy is a meta.”  
  
“We don’t know that.”  
  
“Pretty sure we do? Anyone who can kill with a look _can’t_ be completely human.” At Tim’s lack of a rebuttal, Dick softens. “Look, I know you’re nervous about Jason being back.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Come on, we both know you’re too smart to trust someone right off the bat. But Jason is a good guy. He’s family. I’ve known him since he first started out as Robin, and I know what kind of a person he is. So if you can’t trust him, then at least try trusting me when I tell you there’s nothing to worry about.” He reaches out to ruffle Tim’s hair again. “Okay?”  
  
As doubtful as he is, Tim can’t bring himself to argue against those bright blue eyes, drowning in optimism. So he bites back any further claims and forces a smile, turning back around to face the computer. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.”  
  
“Damn right I’m right.” Tim can’t see Dick’s smile, but he can feel it.  
  
A minute passes—Tim back to working and Dick sitting behind him, lingering on the bed. He hears Dick sigh. “You’re not going to stop investigating him, are you?”  
  
“Would it help if I said there’s only a three percent chance of it actually turning out to be him?”  
  
“No, no it wouldn’t.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tomorrow arrives, and while Dick still has concerns about Tim investigating Jason behind his back, he chooses not to think on it too much. Until he walks into the cave with the intention to work out, only to stumble upon an argument. Because you can’t go anywhere in this household without walking into drama.  
  
“You’re the one who taught me to see things from every angle,” Tim is telling Bruce. “Is it really so terrible for me to have doubts about a guy I barely know?”  
  
“Oh my god,” Dick says, exasperated. “You’re still on the Jason thing?”  
  
“You knew about this?” Bruce says.  
  
“We talked about it yesterday, but we agreed that it’s _not possible_ since Jason isn’t a metahuman.”  
  
Tim crosses his arms. “He was also supposed to be _dead._ It’s not unreasonable to wonder what else might have changed since then.”  
  
“Even if it _were_ Jason,” Bruce jumps in, “it still wouldn’t make sense. Knowing Jay, the first thing he would have done after coming back would be going after the man who killed him. But there’s been no word on Joker in almost a year.”  
  
“That’s not an alibi, Bruce.” It’s clear to see that Tim hates this conversation just as much as they do, but Dick doesn’t know if the way he soldiers on anyway should make him proud or outraged. Right now he can muster neither.  
  
“Look,” Tim says. “When I first became Robin, one of the first things you told me is to _never_ let my guard down. That as a detective, it’s my job to examine every single possibility, even when it forces me to arrive at conclusions I don’t want to make. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. If not for my own peace of mind, then so you guys can walk away with the comfort of knowing letting Jason stay wasn’t a huge mistake.”  
  
Dick steps forward. “Tim—”  
  
“No,” Bruce says. “Tim is right. It’s only smart that we look at this from every angle.”  
  
“Just test him for the gene,” Tim says. “That’s all I’m asking.”  
  
So they do.  
  
Dick feels horrible about it. Like even _entertaining_ the idea that Jason might be a suspect is a betrayal. But more than he wants a clean conscience, he wants— _needs_ —Jason cleared from the list. So he pushes aside the guilt long enough to sneak into Jason’s room while he’s at the record store and swipes his hairbrush from atop the dresser.  
  
It’s impossible to know what Tim is thinking now as he stands off to the side, watching Bruce run the test. Dick doesn’t ask what outcome he’s hoping for. Instead, he settles in to wait as well while the machine scans Jason’s follicles, digging deep into the DNA for any markers of the metagene.  
  
An hour later, the computer chimes. Bruce reads the results and lets out a deep breath. “It’s negative.”  
  
Dick’s lungs loosen as relief washes over him. Of _course_ it’s negative. He doesn’t know why he was so worried in the first place. Anyone can tell that Jason is—above all else—a hero. To find out that Dick’s little brother is some superpowered maniac so soon after getting over the joy of him being alive? It’s unimaginable.  
  
“See?” Dick tells Tim. “I told you Jason was innocent.”  
  
Tim smiles, but there’s something off about it. A broken hinge. Remaining suspicion dimming his eyes and reshaping the smile into something fake. Empty. “You were right, Dick. I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”  
  
As Tim leaves with the excuse of needing to clean his room, Dick finds his stomach turning. They just proved that Jason isn’t the Red Hood. The data is all right there. Tim _thrives_ on data, on cold hard facts and indisputable proof. There’s no reason Jason should still be a suspect.  
  
So why doesn’t it feel like this is over?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
This isn’t over. Tim can’t explain why he’s so sure that not is all as it seems, but some buried instinct blares at him with the world’s largest megaphone. Warns him not to write Jason off so easily.  
  
He knows it makes no sense. _Less_ than no sense. The Red Hood is a metahuman, and Jason isn’t. End of story. The logic is sound, and Tim has _always_ been a man of logic, so why can’t he let this go? Why can’t he accept that Jason is innocent and move on?  
  
Maybe he’s going crazy. He currently lies on his back in one of the manor’s spare rooms, among dusty furniture while he throws a dulled batarang at the ceiling, catching it when it descends. Over and over. Cyclic.  
  
If Tim were a poet, he could relate the repetitive motion of the batarang to his own mental unrest—going in circles with his unprecedented suspicions like a dog chasing its own tail. But alas, he is not. So he won’t.  
  
Since the Red Hood’s debut, Tim has gone over the case a total of ninety-seven times—not including when he mentally reviews the details every night as he falls asleep. Tim knows he’s not missing anything, and it’s not like he’s short on other suspects.  
  
Yet quite a number of his accusations and predictions were riding on _Jason_ being the killer. Now that he’s been cleared, it somehow only makes Tim _more_ sure that Jason should not be disregarded so hastily.  
  
And he knows it’s illogical. More than illogical. It’s plain _stupid_ to keep thinking of Jason as a suspect when everything points to it not being him. And yet.  
  
Tim throws the batarang.  
  
If Jason were, _hypothetically,_ the Red Hood, coming home would be the perfect strategy.  
  
The batarang falls, and he catches it.  
  
By returning of his own accord, Jason cemented his position in a way where he now has access to anything and everything downstairs, all the while the family is so thrilled to have him back that they wouldn’t dare consider the worst. All in all, it’s a good plan when you factor out Tim.  
  
 _Throw._  
  
The Red Hood wants to factor out Tim.  
  
 _Catch._  
  
Which begs the question: If Jason is indeed the Red Hood, why hasn’t he killed Tim yet? It’s apparent that Hood needs a face and/or name to kill, and Jason has both. Even if he didn’t want to kill Tim that way, it would be easy to stage an accident. So why hasn’t he tried anything yet?  
  
 _Throw._  
  
Maybe Dick was right. Maybe Tim _is_ just making false accusations to make up for his own insecurities.  
  
 _Catch._  
  
Then again...  
  
Tim sits up. 

When he first became Robin, Bruce used to tell Tim how impressed he was that he managed to figure out their identities from a somersault, of all things. And he told Tim that it goes to show how much is possible when you hang on to whatever lead you have and follow it to the end.  
  
Tim needs to see this through to the end. Prove not to the others, but to _himself_ that Jason is or is not the Red Hood. Only then can he continue without this whammy of a _what if?_ pursuing him the whole way.  
  
After all, he lied earlier when he told Dick there was only a three percent chance of the Red Hood turning out to be Jason. As of now, it’s seventy-four and rising. If Tim is going to call himself a detective, then he needs to follow this lead as far as it goes.  
  
All he needs is a new approach.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Let’s go to Batburger.”  
  
Jason fights back a scowl. He’s starting to get real sick of Tim popping up every time he turns around. Like a game of Whack-A-Mole, except he’s not even allowed to hit anything. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I’m going stir-crazy now that I can’t patrol, I need a break from casework otherwise my head is going to explode, and I’m buying. Let’s go.”  
  
Jason can’t fathom why he says yes.  
  
A blind moose could tell that the gremlin is just doing this so he can follow Jason around and look for evidence that he is the Red Hood. Jason’s not a fool; of _course_ he’s aware that Tim suspects him by now. They wouldn’t call Robin the alleged greatest detective in the world if he didn’t. It’s not Tim’s fault he’s so bad at hiding it.  
  
As much as Jason wants to turn down the offer—maybe knee the guy in the crotch for good measure—he knows that refusing would only provide yet another implication that he has something to hide. Which he does. So he agrees.  
  
After all, it’s just one lunch. What’s the worst that can happen? If he gets lucky, maybe Tim will choke on a fry and solve Jason’s problem for him.  
  
At the restaurant, Tim picks a corner booth and stretches out in the seat while Jason goes up to the counter to retrieve their orders. Onion rings swimming in gravy and a strawberry milkshake for Jason, while Tim just orders a bowl of sliced pickles. The freak.  
  
When Jason returns, he finds Tim sprinkling one of the complimentary salt packets on his tongue, which he abandons in favor of his pickles. Jason sits across from him and takes a sip of his milkshake.  
  
“So,” Tim says, munching on a pickle. “I figured out who the Red Hood is.”  
  
Jason chokes. _Shit. Fuck. Shit, damn, god fucking mother of darn it hell fuck—_

He coughs, clearing his throat. “You did?” How did Tim figure him out so quickly? Is he bluffing? If by chance he _isn’t_ bluffing, then why would he bring Jason here to tell him that in the first place? Does Bruce already know? Was this whole stupid outing some elaborate trap so Tim can take down the infamous Red Hood in style? Is—  
  
“No.” Tim smiles, sprinkling salt on his finger. “I just wanted to see how you’d react if you thought I did.”  
  
Jason is going to beat him to death with a crowbar. He’s going to blow him up in a warehouse. He’s going to stuff his scrawny body in a pillowcase, put the pillowcase in a box, but _that_ box in a larger box, mail the larger box to himself, and smash it with a hammer.  
  
Instead of voicing his violent fantasies, he forces himself to stay cool. Don’t give away anything else. “And did you learn anything?”  
  
Tim shrugs. “Just that your poker face could use some work. And that your shock at thinking I solved the case has, like, four or five possible causes.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
Tim’s eyes don’t leave his bowl of pickles, portraying false boredom. “All of your questions are kinda ruining the creepy vibe I’m trying to set here, you know.”  
  
Jason lays his hands on the table—palms down and open. “What’s the real reason you brought me here?”  
  
“I think there’s something up with you. I just don’t know what it is yet.”  
  
Jason leans back in his seat. “Sorry to burst your bubble, kid, but I really am just here because I missed my family and needed somewhere to crash. Real estate is difficult when you’re legally dead.”  
  
Another shrug. “I don’t believe you.”  
  
“Dude, we’ve spent practically every second together since you let me join in on the Red Hood case. How can you still not trust me?”  
  
“If it helps, I don’t trust anyone.”  
  
“That’s pretty callous, don’t you think?”  
  
“I think I can afford to be callous when it’s my life on the line.”  
  
Jason’s mouth tightens. His hands yearn to clench into fists, but he keeps them still. “I’m not the Red Hood.”  
  
“I never said you were.”  
  
“You’re implying it, which is still pretty fucking rude, if you ask me.” To cover up his stress, Jason bites into an onion ring. It tastes like cement. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m not a deranged serial killer.”  
  
“I’m sure you aren’t.”  
  
Jason rolls his eyes. Plays up the surety of his innocence. “Oh, yeah. You sound real sure.”  
  
This time, Tim doesn’t argue. He merely stares at Jason with narrowed eyes, almost like he wants to reach inside his head and see what makes him tick. “I read about you, you know.”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“Your file. Bruce has records for pretty much everyone in the cave’s system, so I read everything in yours. Bruce would have blown a gasket if he found out, but I used to study you.”  
  
“So you’re some kind of stalker?” Jason takes a pull of milkshake. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”  
  
Tim snorts. “No, I’m a detective. Yours was a hard act to follow, so I researched your fighting style, techniques, and anything else I could find. If it’s any consolation, I did the same thing with Dick and Barbara.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Your profile said your father was a crook, your mom was a drug addict, and your birth mother sold you out to Joker in Ethiopia. All are deceased.” The facts come out like data printing from a receipt machine. “You lived on the streets until age twelve, doing questionable things to survive until Bruce picked you up and made you Robin. You were Robin for roughly two years until you went to Ethiopia to find your mom and—”  
  
 _“Knock it off,”_ Jason snaps, facade breaking as he pounds one fist on the table. The restaurant around them goes quiet at the sudden outburst, all eyes now on Jason. Tim’s, most of all. Inquisitive. Fascinated. Smug.  
  
 _Of course._ Tim _wants_ him to crack. Wants to dig in deep enough to see the fire lying dormant, embers flecking off with every pound of his heart. Jason already knew this outing was nothing more than a disguised interrogation, but he underestimated how blatantly Tim would go about it.  
  
Jason takes a deep breath. Says, quieter, “I know what you’re trying to do, Tim. And as bitchy and conniving as it is, I understand why you’re doing it. But believe me when I say I’m _not_ here to hurt anyone. I’m not capable of whatever it is you’re accusing me of in your head. And I’m not going to sit here and listen to you dredge up all the shitty stuff I’ve been trying to repress since I woke up in the coffin.”  
  
Tim’s head tilts. It’s impossible to know what’s going on in that whirlpool he calls a brain until he looks down at the table, contrite. “I guess you’re right. Sorry.”  
  
Now it’s Jason’s turn to snort. “That apology’s clearly a load of bull, but I’ll take it.” He makes it through two more onion rings before saying, mouth full, “What’d you even memorize all that crap for, anyway?”  
  
“Same reason every kid in America owns a Superman t-shirt. Everyone’s got a hero they look up to.”  
  
“No offense, but are you sure you’re not confusing me with Grayson? Because if you want a hero, you’re looking at the wrong guy.”  
  
“Are you kidding?” Tim seems almost offended on Jason’s behalf, which is all kinds of weird. “I thought the world of you, Jason. Still do. Ever since Bruce let me wear the cape, everything I’ve done has been to win your guys’ approval.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Do you think my parents cared anytime I aced a test or learned a new skateboard trick? They hardly bothered to show up for the birthdays and the first days of school, but Bruce took me in _willingly._ He didn’t have to, but he did. And ever since then, I’ve been...I don’t know. Trying to earn it.”  
  
Yikes. _Big_ yikes. This conversation is heading into a personal kind of territory that Jason would prefer to stay far, _far_ away from. Getting chummy with the guy you plan to kill in the near future is a capital-B Bad idea; ask anyone else in their line of work.  
  
“Trust me, kid. If they let you stick around this long, you’ve already earned it.” The words taste like sewage. When did this interrogation turn into some mentor/pipsqueak pep talk?  
  
“Then you get why I can’t let my suspicions go, right? If you were in my position, you’d do the same thing.”  
  
The Red Hood would argue. Jason Todd, second edition Robin, wouldn’t. “I’m not saying I like the thought of you profiling me behind my back, but...yeah. I get it.”  
  
“Good.” Tim sits back and nibbles on a slice of pickle. “Besides. If you’re telling the truth and you’re really not the Hood, then you have nothing to worry about, right?”  
  
“Right.” Jason has to admit, the kid’s got balls. It’s going to be annoying having to navigate Tim’s keen eye as they go about working the rest of the case, but Jason’s been in the business longer than Tim has. He can handle some scrutiny.  
  
They pass the rest of the meal by with light conversation—at least, to an outside observer. In reality, every word is a chess piece in motion. What information can Tim potentially use against him? If Jason gives into Tim’s inquiries about that time Jason helped put Sal Maroni in prison years ago, will Tim find a way to connect it to Maroni’s death via the Death Note two weeks ago?  
  
When Tim idly mentions an annoying history teacher from his old middle school, would it be suspicious for Jason to keep the topic going in the hopes he gets the teacher’s name or even the school? Would it be _more_ suspicious for him not to ask, since that’s the exact kind of thing he’d fixate over if he were indeed Hood?  
  
And, above all his other concerns, Tim’s words from earlier still stick out.  
  
 _Everyone’s got a hero they look up to._  
  
Was it an attempt at humanizing himself in Jason’s eyes? Does he know of Jason’s plans and made up some crap about Jason being his hero as a veiled plea for mercy? And if by chance it _was_ genuine, why would he pick Jason to look up to? The Robin who got himself killed?  
  
Jason doesn’t want to think of Tim as a person with feelings. He wants Tim to remain a wrench in his operation; an obstacle to overcome. Fine, so maybe there’s a slight, itty-bitty chance that Tim isn’t as much of a prick as Jason thought he was. Whoop-de-doo. He’s still going to get rid of him sooner or later.  
  
When it’s time to go, Jason stops Tim as he prepares to leave the booth. “Hang on, kid.” His walls are back up. He stares at Tim with rigid intensity. “I know you didn’t just bring me here to interrogate me and experiment with your weird mind games. What was your real angle?”  
  
This time Tim smiles, like he’s impressed at how Jason sees through every pretense he puts on. “You’re right, it wasn’t just to interrogate you.” He picks up his trash and stands. As he walks away, he says over his shoulder, “I wanted to study your microexpressions so I’ll know all of your tells when you lie to me in the future.”  
  
Never mind. He’s _definitely_ a prick.

* * *

Jason screwed up.  
  
He doesn’t even know how it happened. One minute, Tim Whatever-His-Real-Last-Name-Is-Wayne was a nuisance at best and a fatal foe at bloodiest. Oh, and what a glorious, un-confusing minute it was. Jason misses that minute. He wants to go back to that minute and stay there forever.  
  
Alas, minutes don’t last in this cruel, ever-moving world. Because in the next minute, through some monumental screw-up, Jason finds that he actually _tolerates_ the little shit now.  
  
Don’t get him wrong. Tim is smug, conniving, an intolerable smartass, and he has a lame haircut to boot. But lunch at Batburger turns into sparring during the afternoon to keep from getting out of shape. It turns into Jason teaching the hopeless gremlin how to fry eggs the _proper_ way, and Tim introducing Jason to Netflix shortly before they spend the entire rest of the night binge-watching _The Office._  
  
Seriously, what kind of slow-burn, found family fanfiction is this?  
  
It happens slowly, the growing affection infecting Jason like a parasite. Every day he and Tim work together on the Red Hood case—Tim scouring for information and Jason nudging him away from said information at every turn—and every night they hang out in the cave while the others patrol, noshing on Alfred’s snacks and chatting with Dick over the comms.  
  
As much as Jason refuses to say the word, there is no denying the bond sprouting between them like a stubborn weed. Now when Jason and Tim argue and get on each other’s nerves, it’s not in a “Red Hood versus Robin” way. It’s in a “brother versus brother” way.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
But it only gets worse from there. With each day that passes, Jason can feel his resolve dissolving. When he fantasizes about Tim’s funeral, there is a melancholy vibe attached to it now. He finds himself hoping Tim gets hit by a truck or overdoses on caffeine that way Jason doesn’t have to be the one to pull the metaphorical trigger.  
  
He knows he can’t leave Tim alive. Not when the kid is so determined to bring the Red Hood to justice, without taking the time to realize that what Jason is doing _is_ justice. What business does Robin have interfering with what the rest of the world recognizes as heroism? For every life he takes, Jason is saving dozens—maybe even hundreds of innocent ones. That’s what heroes do, right? They save people.  
  
So as much as it saddens Jason, he knows this match of wits between Tim and himself will end with only one winner. And it’s going to be Jason.  
  
Tonight Jay takes a break from researching and subsequently disbanding Gotham’s Irish mob with a number two pencil, and goes downstairs for a midnight snack. He already half-expects to find Tim in the kitchen, poring over evidence with a Redbull and negative nine hours of sleep. It’s not an unusual happenstance, given Tim’s workaholic nature. You’d think he inherited it from Bruce if they were truly blood-related.  
  
This night, however, Tim is passed out at the kitchen island, head pillowed on his folded arms with a cold cup of coffee sitting beside him. He’s surrounded by newspaper clippings and a few files Jason recognizes from the Justice League’s archives that Clark sent over. Info on meta abilities and archetypes.  
  
Jason rolls his eyes. He’s careful not to disturb Tim as he crosses the room to the fridge on a quest for juice, but one of the folders catches his eye. He doesn’t remember Clark bringing over _that_ one. He steps closer to the sleeping teen.  
  
Jason has been forced to be around Tim enough to know how Tim’s system works by now. Files on the left haven’t been examined yet, while those on the right have. The manila folder beside Tim’s left elbow is labeled, _League of Assassins._ Good golly, what clever labeling, Batman!  
  
Slowly so Tim doesn’t wake, Jason slides the folder closer and opens it. Inside are various reports and statistics, maps and charts. Lists of all known League members with powers, along with anything else relating to the subject. One item in particular has Jason inhaling sharply through his teeth.  
  
It’s a photo of the same room in which Jason and the Death Note first crossed paths. Where did Tim get this? There are other photos in the folder, but this one sends Jason’s pulse quickening to the brink of panic. Tim must have a bug in the League compound.  
  
If Tim finds so much as a _shred_ of evidence to suggest that Ra’s is somehow connected to the Red Hood, then Jason’s cover is completely blown. Especially once Tim comes to realize that not a single member of Ra’s’ crew has been targeted.  
  
This photo needs to disappear.  
  
As quietly as he can, Jason takes the photo, along with any other information in the folder that could potentially put Tim on the trail. Jason closes the folder and slips the stolen evidence into the back pocket of his jeans. He makes a mental note to burn them later, just to be safe.  
  
He’ll have to pull an all-nighter doctoring phony reports of assassin deaths caused by the Red Hood, just vague enough to prevent any fact-checking but subtle enough to ensure they won’t get more than a once-over.  
  
Heart still pounding from the close call, Jason prepares to leave, but hesitates. Looks back at Tim, who’s still huddled over the counter; fast asleep and drooling. Head angled so he’ll _definitely_ wake up with a crick in his neck come morning.  
  
Jason shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over Tim’s shoulders because...he doesn’t really know why.  
  
He makes it almost to the doorway when Tim shifts behind him. “Jay?” he mumbles, voice thick and groggy.  
  
Jason turns and finds one blue eye staring back at him, droopy and on its way to closing again. “There’s this new thing called a bed, you know. Might want to try it sometime instead of drooling all over Alfred’s kitchen.”  
  
Tim yawns. He looks exhausted. “Gotta...Gotta have today’s Hood reports done by morning.” He yawns again and starts to sit up, but that’s when he notices the jacket and pauses. Stares at it with those sleep-crusted eyes like his vision isn’t quite connecting with his brain the way it should.  
  
“I’ll take care of it,” Jason tells him. “Now go back to sleep before you start seeing pink elephants and shit.” At least now he can falsify the assassins’ deaths with ease.  
  
Tim smiles sleepily, eyes closing again. “Thanks, Jay. Y’re a…” He’s cut off by another yawn and pulls the jacket tighter around himself. “Y’re a good brother.” Seconds later he’s back to snoring, oblivious to Jason who is now frozen in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the sleeping boy in shock.  
  
He didn’t mean that, right? He was tired. He didn’t know what he was saying. Hell, odds are he just confused Jason with Dick—his _real_ brother.  
  
...Right? 


	5. The Way It Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This ending is so bullshitted I'm sorry. I got really lazy and did it all in one day so yeah.)

Jason is tired of walking on eggshells. Every day the underlying anxiety grows, making him paranoid. How much longer until he slips up and Tim finds the evidence he needs to pin him down as the Red Hood? These days, every move Jason makes is calculated—every word, every action, everything is thought ahead for potential risk.   
  
It’s almost at the point where Jason regrets picking up the Death Note in the first place.   
  
Almost.   
  
Now, Jason is walking past Tim’s room when he hears something shatter inside. He pokes his head in through the cracked-open doorway to see Tim—still in his school uniform—standing with one hand braced on the wall in defeat. A lamp lies in pieces on the floor.   
  
“Kid? You okay?”  
  
“He killed again,” Tim says.   
  
“Who?” But he already knows the answer.   
  
Tim barks out a laugh and turns, looking up at Jason through the strands of hair that hang in front of his forehead. “Who do you think?” Then he picks up a folded newspaper from his desk and tosses it to Jason.   
  
Jason opens it and reads the headline. “Henry Acquista. He was a mob boss, wasn’t he?” As if he doesn’t already know. He killed Acquista this morning while brushing his teeth.   
  
Tim nods. Says, voice strained, “He was my friend’s dad. She found out during lunch today.”  
  
“Oh. I’m sorry.”   
  
Tim looks at him, brows creased. “Are you?” he asks, as if he’s genuinely curious.   
  
A silence stretches between them, making the air crackle with electricity. Jason notes the bags under Tim’s eyes. “When’s the last time you slept?”   
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“To me? No. But I imagine it will to Pops when he finds his Robin passed out in a garbage can somewhere.”  
  
Tim shakes his head. “I need to catch the Red Hood. Every day he’s left on the loose is another life taken because of me.” Damn. The replacement is taking this thing harder than Jason thought. Then again, it’s his own fault for getting involved in the first place.   
  
Jason forces himself to act like he actually cares about Tim’s wellbeing, the way a person who _isn’t_ the Hood would. It’s easier than he expects. “Come on, Tim. You know I want to catch him just as much as you do, but—”  
  
“Stop.” Tim’s hands are in fists, clenched at his sides. His mouth is a tight line. “Tell me something, Jay. Since you came back to life, has there ever been a time when you actually told the truth?”  
  
As the words sink in, Jason can’t help but find it funny the way this all worked out. Tim knows Jason is the Red Hood, but he can’t prove a thing. All the while Jason knows that Tim knows, just as Jason knows that Tim knows that Jason knows, and so on.   
  
They are trapped in an eternal tug-of-war, but neither of them will let go of the damn rope.   
  
So Jason feigns innocence. “I’m just looking out for you. You need a break.”  
  
“What I _need_ is to catch the Red Hood. What I _need_ is for him to stop killing, so I can have a moment’s peace without knowing that the longer I wait, the more people are going to die thanks to my failure.” Tim collapses into his desk chair, head in his hands. A picture of exhaustion.  
  
Jason has half a mind to call Alfred and have him slip a sedative in Tim’s coffee. Anything to keep him from looking at Jason with those sad, tired eyes. Guilting him into hesitation.   
  
After a moment, Tim raises his head. “Look, just go away, okay? I’ve got homework, and with the investigation taking up all of my time, I’m way behind.”   
  
As he leaves, Jason pushes the memory of Tim’s sunken, sorrowful eyes from his mind. He _refuses_ to feel sorry for his deeds as the Red Hood. He’s ridding the world of crime—fulfilling Batman’s whole _mission_ with twice the ease and in half the time. If the road to heaven is soaked with blood, then Jason is more than willing to pay that price.   
  
Still. If he happens to spend the rest of the day working through his stack of library books rather than killing the entirety of the Golden Dragons gang like he planned, that’s purely coincidence. 

* * *

  
  
Tim is working on something. Jason can’t help but feel like he should be worried.   
  
Whatever secret project is taking up his time, Tim is tight-lipped about it. Refuses to tell anyone what it is that keeps him hiding away in his room for hours at a time, only leaving for coffee and meals. He spends entire nights hunched over the Batcomputer’s keyboard, switching to a blank window anytime somebody looks over his shoulder.    
  
All the while Jason sweats bullets. What is Tim working on? Has he found something solid to incriminate Jason? Is he planning something to catch Jason off his guard and expose him for who he truly is? Or is this all just a ruse to make Jason anxious?    
  
The whole thing comes to a head one afternoon, when Jason and the others are watching one of Dick’s cop dramas on the flat screen. Tim—as usual—has been holed up in his bedroom all day. It’s why his sudden appearance in the doorway turns heads.    
  
Tim ignores the stares and drops a folder on the coffee table, right in front of Jason’s propped-up feet. Like he’s a character from the show, revealing damning evidence to his scarlet-handed suspect.    
  
Dick arches an eyebrow. “What have you got there?”   
  
Tim sits on the arm of Bruce’s chair, blasé as ever. “That? Just some research I’ve been working on.” He picks at his cuticles. “You know, hockey scores. Bigfoot sightings. Found out the Joker’s real identity. Nothing too interesting.”   
  
Jason sits up so fast his iced tea spills on the floor. “Are you fucking serious?”    
  
Tim nods, still preoccupied with his fingernails. “Yup. It wasn’t easy, but I found everything. Name, birthday, social security number—it’s all there in the file. Feel free to take a look, if you want.” Only then do his eyes flicker up to look at Jason, a cocky glimmer in his irises.    
  
Jason can’t even speak.  _ The Joker.  _ It’s almost too good to be true. It  _ is  _ too good to be true. With this information, Jason can finally kill the clown who ruined his life with but a stroke of the pen.    
  
Sure he knows what Tim is doing, just as much as  _ Tim  _ knows what Tim is doing. Because Tim must be fully aware that Jason can’t resist an opportunity like this. And so he went and dug up the one thing that could give him the upper hand—the  _ one thing  _ Jason can’t pass up.    
  
Revenge on the bastard who killed him.   
  
Before his brain has time to catch up with his body, Jason’s already up and swiping the file off the table.    
  
Dick stands from his seat on the couch and puts himself in Jason’s path. “Jason, hang on—” But Jason is  _ way  _ past listening and shoves Dick aside.    
  
He’s going to kill the monster. The  _ thing  _ that beat and maimed and  _ murdered  _ him—murdered an innocent  _ child.  _ And it doesn’t matter that the Joker has been off the grid for a year. It doesn’t matter that he could be on the other side of the world, locked away in the universe’s most air-tight bomb shelter. Because Jason finally knows his  _ name.  _   
  
He ignores the voices of his family telling him to stop, to take a minute and think about what he’s doing. Pays no attention to the way Tim doesn’t do a thing as he watches Jason leave, a thoughtful expression on his face.    
  
Jason heads downstairs to the garage, down to where his motorcycle awaits. He’s got some writing to do, and he’s not waiting a second longer.    
  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time Jason navigates Gotham’s rush hour traffic and arrives at his safe house, the rage/adrenaline cocktail coursing through his veins has him tearing apart the bedroom in minutes. Because  _ obviously  _ Jason doesn’t store his Death Note in the manor where anyone can find it. He’s not an idiot.    
  
Except it isn’t under his mattress where he left it. Nor is it under the bed, in any of his dresser drawers, or in between the couch cushions. Jason ravages the apartment, searching through every cranny. Looking under every piece of furniture. He dumps out the garbage bin and pries up the floorboards, white noise rushing in his ears as the panic sets in.    
  
He’s on the verge of a meltdown when a voice behind him says, “Looking for this?”   
  
Jason sits up abruptly, dropping the couch cushion he was in the process of ripping apart. He turns to find Tim standing at the other end of the living room, Robin gear and all. He holds the Death Note in one gloved hand.   
  
Jason’s eyes narrow. He stands, tense as a wire, and growls, “Give it to me.”   
  
“Why? So you can use it on Joker?”   
  
“I said,  _ give it to me.”  _   
  
Tim doesn’t look remotely afraid. More contemplative than anything. “I knew it was you, you know. From the beginning, I always knew it was you.” He looks down at the notebook. Opens it and scans the hundreds of names scrawled across its pages. Every single one of them now a corpse.   
  
“Bruce and Dick...they thought it was a meta. But it’s this, right? Let me guess: you see the face, you write the name, and they die.” Tim looks up then, and Jason can practically see the new data crackling behind his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you haven’t killed me yet.”    
  
Jason says nothing. Just glares.    
  
“And to think, all this time I thought it was because I grew on you.” Tim shakes his head, huffing a laugh. “But you just needed my name.  _ That  _ was the missing piece.” He drags his thumb over one page where it’s covered margin to margin in ink:  _ Tim Wayne. Timothy Wayne. Timothy Grayson-Wayne. Timothy Kane. Timothy Kane-Wayne.  _ And a hundred more combinations in which Jason was just guessing, hoping that one of them would stick.    
  
“How did you find it?” Jason asks finally.    
  
“This?” Tim waves the Death Note. “A few nights ago, you stole evidence tied to the League of Assassins that you knew could incriminate you if I got ahold of it.” He smiles at the shock on Jason’s face. “Yep. I planted that on purpose. It was a longshot that you would take the bait, but…” He spreads his hands.    
  
“I’d already had copies made of everything in that file, so I found what was missing and went from there. It led me to realize you must have stolen something from Ra’s’ compound that does the killing  _ for  _ you, which explains why the metahuman angle was a dead end. Then I simply had to break into all of your safehouses and search until I found it.” He waggles the notebook.   
  
Jason’s fingernails dig into his palms. “You should have minded your own business.”    
  
“Why? So you can keep killing innocent people?”   
  
“They are  _ not  _ innocent. I’m making the world better! Taking out the people who deserve it!”   
  
“Oh, yeah? And what about the cops?” Tim demands. “What about the good people who tried to end your reign of terror and got killed for it? Don’t tell me that made the world better too.”   
  
“They shouldn’t have poked their noses in places they didn’t belong.”    
  
“And what about me, huh? Do I deserve to die too?” Tim’s voice rises in volume. “Just for trying to stop you from going against everything Batman stands for? For trying to uphold the legacy that  _ you _ died protect?”   
  
“You stole  _ everything  _ from me!” Jason shouts. “My name. My family. You stole my entire  _ life,  _ and now you think you can waltz in and take away my second chance at being a hero too?”    
  
“This  _ isn’t  _ what heroes do, Jason.”   
  
“Tell that to Diana. Tell that to Katana or Midnighter or  _ Oliver.  _ Killing isn’t evil if you’re saving more lives than you take, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing!”   
  
Tim’s fury bleeds through the mask. “That’s not your decision to make,  _ Hood,  _ and you know it.”   
  
“It’s justice.”   
  
“It’s  _ evil.  _ It’s making you no better than them!”   
  
Jason’s threadbare patience snaps. “Just give me the fucking notebook!” He lunges for it, but Tim is faster than he is. He dodges and kicks Jason in the side, keeping the notebook out of his reach in the ensuing scuffle.    
  
At one point Jason thinks he has the upper hand when he manages to grab Tim from behind, only for Tim to bash his elbow into Jason’s nose with a  _ crack.  _ Ignoring the blood gushing over his lips, Jason takes advantage of the close quarters and manages to knock the notebook out of Tim’s hand. It goes sliding across the floor, and they both dive for it.    
  
Tim reaches the Death Note a fraction of a second before Jason does and sends a swift punch to his throat, knocking the breath out of him. Jason lands on the floor, choking while Tim makes a break for the fire escape.    
  
Jason hacks out coughs and pounds his fist on the floor. “Damn it!” He forces himself to his feet and follows. He can’t lose the kid. If he does, that notebook  _ and  _ his revenge are as good as gone.    
  
He scales the building to the roof, hauling himself over the edge and scanning the place for any sign of Tim. “I know you’re up here,” he calls. “You’re even dumber than I thought if you think I’m letting you get away with my notebook.”   
  
“I’ll take my chances.” Jason whips to the right and finds Tim standing a distance away, half-shrouded in shadows. He’s still holding the Death Note, eyes narrowed behind his mask.    
  
“You’re not getting out of this, Tim.”   
  
Tim just stares at him, jaw set. The humid night air blows through his hair. “Drake.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“My name,” Tim says, stepping forward, “is Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.” He tosses the Death Note so it lands at Jason’s feet.    
  
Jason doesn’t pick it up. Not at first. He’s on high alert, scanning Tim for any sign of a trick. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Exactly what I shouldn’t do. I’m putting the ball in your court.”   
  
Slowly, Jason leans down and picks up the notebook, keeping eye contact the whole time. “You realize you just signed your own death warrant, right?”   
  
“Did I?” Tim’s expression is a mixture of complacent, sly, and genuinely curious.   
  
“...This is a trap,” Jason decides.    
  
“Nope.” Tim takes off his mask, displaying blue eyes; wide and earnest. “No more tricks. No more mind puzzles. This whole time we’ve been playing each other’s games, but I’m officially done playing. You wanna kill me? Kill me. Write my name down. Win the game.”   
  
Jason’s hand tightens around the leather cover. “You think I won’t do it?”   
  
“I know you will.”    
  
They stare each other down—ice on turquoise; fiery rage on cool scrutiny. Slowly, Jason opens the Death Note. Gathers blood onto his finger from his nosebleed and poises it over a clean page. Only then does he hesitate.    
  
Once Jason writes his name, Tim Drake-Wayne will be nothing more than a memory. Another victim of the Red Hood’s reign. Tim must have been counting on Jason having a change of heart, but this time he miscalculated. Jason has waited too long for this; for the culmination of everything he’s worked so hard for up until now.    
  
This, right here? This is the way it ends.    
  
“Well, Hood?” Tim says. “You gonna do it or not?”   
  
Teeth clenched, Jason writes a T.    
  
_ Everyone’s got a hero they look up to.  _ _   
_ _   
_ I.    
  
_ It’s  _ evil.  _ It’s making you no better than them!  _   
  
M.    
  
_ Thanks, Jay. You’re a good brother.  _   
  
Jason tries to write the next letter, but his hand is shaking. He steals a glance up at Tim, who looks...resigned. Disappointed, maybe. But not surprised. Never surprised.    
  
Not until Jason smudges out the name and closes the book.    
  
Tim’s eyes blow wide as Jason drops the Death Note on the ground. “You’re...not going to do it?”   
  
“You win, replacement. Take me to Bruce or Arkham or Belle Rev or whatever the fuck it is you plan on doing with me. I don’t care.” He kicks the Death Note and it slides halfway across the distance to Tim, who still hasn’t moved.    
  
After half a minute passes and Tim still does nothing, Jason sighs. “Come on, kid, just get it over with. You beat me fair and square, so take the goddamn win before I change my mind.”    
  
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Jason.”   
  
“Oh, yeah? Tell that to the hundreds of criminals I killed.”   
  
“You mean that the Death Note killed.” Tim’s brows are knotted; gazed fixed on the notebook while his tongue pokes at his bottom lip thoughtfully. Pixels shift behind his eyes, weighing the options. “What if...What if the Red Hood stops? No more killing. No more bloodshed. We burn the notebook and never tell anyone about what happened. It’ll be like...like he vanished into thin air.”   
  
Jason’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Why? You know all the shit I’ve done. If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, I would have slaughtered you weeks ago without a single regret.”   
  
“Because I don’t think you’re a bad person. Not completely. You were a hero once, and you can be a hero again.”   
  
“You don’t know that.”   
  
Tim shrugs. “Maybe I don’t. But everyone deserves a second chance.” From his utility belt he takes out a lighter and holds it out to Jason. “What do you say?”    
  
Jason shakes his head. “You know I can’t just give it all up. Joker needs to be put in the fucking ground. And all of the other criminals who walk around free every day—if I don’t take them out, who will?”   
  
_ “We _ will. And we’ll find a better way to do it.”   
  
“It won’t work,” Jason says. “The only way to rid the world of crime is to do it permanently.”   
  
Tim lets out a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie, Jay, so you’ve got two choices here: You can leave right now, I’ll go home and tell the others the truth, and you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life.”   
  
Jason grimaces just thinking about it.    
  
_ “Or,”  _ Tim says, “you can come home. You can put this Death Note stuff behind you, and you can find a  _ new  _ way to be a hero. You can still have everything you want.”   
  
“You’re taking a huge risk here, you know. Taking a chance on me.”    
  
“I know I am.” Tim raises the lighter. “So? Have we got a deal?”   
  
It’s difficult to imagine coming back from this. Jason has filtered every ounce of his rage, pain, and passion into his new mission. Into being the hero and executioner humanity needs. Can he really give that up so easily? Is it even possible?    
  
Tim thinks it is. Jason wants to believe it is, that he can find a new way to save the world without sacrificing everything he holds dear, and so he thinks about Bruce. About Dick. About Barbara and Tim and Alfred—his  _ family.  _   
  
Making up his mind, Jason takes the lighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I know the whole thing was pretty ooc, but that's because I couldn't stop thinking about the concept in general so I wrote it solely for myself. Also if it was rushed, that's just because I had to fit an entire series into one five-chapter fic. Also I'm lazy. And it's 1:00am and I'm tired so I'm barely coherent at this point and I intend to edit this tomorrow, but let's be real. Odds are I won't. 
> 
> Goodnight, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> If you leave a comment, the tooth fairy will replace all of your teeth with acorns. 
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


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